


wave over unquiet stone

by orphan_account



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Ambiguous Genders, Angst, Desert Bluffs, Human Experimentation, M/M, Spoiler for Episode 32: Yellow Helicopters, Spoilers for Episode 31: A Blinking Light, Spoilers for Episode 33: Cassettes, Strexcorp, in which i apologize for a lot of shit and ramble and talk about my feelings, might turn my luck upside down, so if you don't wanna read that, the actual story ends at chapter 13, the last chapter is actually an author's note, um ok here's another PSA, which is pretty unlucky but hey night vale fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Desert Bluffs is dangerous, but not for the reasons Cecil hisses over the radio and the half-formed hypotheses he thinks up at night.</p><p>COMPLETE with bonus author's note.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Beautiful Day in the Bluffs

  
In the wave-strike over unquiet stones  
the brightness bursts and bears the rose

.

Carlos has known fear, and he has known horror. And he has lived long enough for silver to touch his temples and remind him that they are not the same.

He also has Night Vale, with the dog park and absence of Thursday, to strike both into his heart.

It is a quiet day, with Cecil curled into his side, sleeping soundly on his mandatory two week vacation issued by the vague yet menacing government agency currently keeping tabs on his boyfriend’s REM cycle.

The rotor blades have only nipped one shingle so far, and replaced it so quick Carlos felt vertigo from his perch on the roof, apparently supervising.

It is a quiet day.  
.

When Cecil wakes (one leg then the other), stretching and rearranging bone and muscle, pulling the zygomaticus major and minor into a Cheshire grin, too sincere to be threatening (of spontaneous disappearance or otherwise). His breath is reassuring, warm and stale, puffing against Carlos’ neck and jaw.

“Good morning,” he says, voice luxurious and rough as it wafts over Carlos. He feels a hopeful twitch in his groin, apropos of nothing, since all Cecil did for the past eight days was sleep and smile and sip coffee with a forked tongue and pointed molars.

Carlos smiles back, and makes room for Cecil to lay his head on his chest and listen to the helicopter hover noisily above them. Carlos runs his fingers along the ropy tendons of his boyfriend’s ( _boyfriend_ , wow) arm, following the veins up into where they disappear beneath the muscle of Cecil’s shoulder. Objectively speaking, Carlos could probably map the veins and arteries with his eyes closed, name the carotid and femoral and press firm, testing the pressure and pulse in one fell stroke.

It’s hard to be objective with Cecil, though, with his half-lidded smiles that feel so private and intimate Carlos has to suck in a breath and remind himself that he deserves them.

A knock on the window interrupts his reverie, a Secret Police officer crouching dignified on the roof. Her eyes are flat and emotionless as Carlos opens the window, letting her climb in like a teenaged lover rather than law enforcement. She nods and blinks at the same time, which is as good a thanks he’ll ever get.

“I’m looking for Carlos, the Scientist,” she announces to the space between their heads, a height she can easily surpass with her broad frame and strong shoulders.

Carlos wants to remind people that he does have a last name, and it isn’t Scientist with an emphasis on the _S_  as if it could convince people the letter is not lowercase.

“That’s me,” he says, cheeks burning after the failed attempt at telling her his last name.

She looks at him directly, dark brown eyes melting into her pupil, and scans his features. He wonders if he sees sympathy in her gaze, for the few seconds he is able to hold eye contact. Her name tag reads Evelyn.

“City Council received a letter from StrexCorp yesterday, claiming you were running out of miscellaneous laboratory items, for which you issued an order form two weeks ago,”

Carlos huffs. Geiger counters are not _miscellaneous_.

“However, after the incident on Route 800, the one we must not speak of since it never actually happened, there have been some slight changes” she pauses, voice reverberating ominously. Carlos isn’t sure when he’ll get used to the spontaneous cancellations of reality.

Evelyn looks down at the paper again, even though Carlos is pretty sure she has the whole thing memorised.

“This non-event has rendered several delivery trucks unfit for driving, including yours. If you would like, you can place an order one to two weeks from today, and StrexCorp will deliver it whenever they see fit,”

Carlos needs those Geiger counters to figure out if Night Vale really does have radiation contamination, like, _now_.

“Is there anything else I ca-” Evelyn cuts him off with her monotone.

“StrexCorp has offered an alternative, wherein you pick up the counters manually from their factory headquarters in Desert Bluffs,”

Carlos knows Cecil’s eyes are bulging out of his head, and tries his best to calm his boyfriend without actually touching him. Cecil’s shadow seethes angrily on the opposing wall.

Apparently done with the conversation, Evelyn hops out the window and sends a shingle flying over Carlos and Cecil’s heads. It shatters against the wall, and then is absorbed by the wall, which does nothing to quell Carlos’ anxiety.

The silence between them stretches luxuriously, almost cat-like.

“Do you really need those counters?” his boyfriend asks in a small voice.

“Yes, Cecil,”

Another pause, taking the form of a horse mid-gallop.

“I’m coming with you,” and Carlos accepts it, without question, with Cecil’s mind set.

There isn’t much to say when Cecil looks as unfathomable as the Void.

.

The drive to Desert Bluffs is not silent, thankfully, as the radio alternates between static and a pre-recorded session of Cecil’s program. Cecil starts the conversation with a list of things he hates, really hates, and Desert Bluffs is the first and leather couches the last.

“What’s wrong with leather couches?”

“One false move and the upholstery can swallow you whole, my love,”

Carlos is caught between wondering if he should ask about the upholstery or focus on fighting the blush creeping up his neck. He manages to do neither.

.

Route 800 is like a lot of highways Carlos has been on, dusty and remote and framed with cacti. He remembers reading that it stretched over a hundred miles, east to west, before tapering off into larger roads leading to Texas and Albuquerque. If he tried tracing it back to Night Vale, the map suddenly shifted into the ocean view of the Black Sea.

The radio is faint, until abruptly switching to an instrumental version of what Carlos would call “hard-rock”. The music fades out, switching to the cheery sound of a man announcing the sponsor, as there has only been one for the longest time, StrexCorp.

“Welcome to Desert Bluffs,” he says, and Cecil’s eyes widen.

“That’s him,” Cecil points to the volume control as if it offended him. “That’s the man who tried to kill me during the sandstorm!”

Something cold and heavy drops in Carlos’ stomach. Desert Bluffs, for the most part, looks small and centered, like all the houses gravitate to the gigantic spire in the centre of the town. Made of glass and steel, the structure winds high into the pale sky and pierces fluffy clouds with its tip. StrexCorp is emboldened in black font near the bottom. Carlos wants to shift the gears and drive straight back to Night Vale.

“They used Times New Roman for their main font, how tacky!” Cecil exclaims, nose wrinkling in disgust.

The desire to run is growing stronger every second he stares at the colossal figure. But those stupid counters are what he needs, what the rich people behind his funding need, what his supervisor back at the University needs and Carlos doesn't want them to think he chose Night Vale so he could run away (even though he sort of did, partly for science and partly for himself).

He pulls up to the parking lot behind the building, unbuckling his seat belt and stepping out the car. The spire looks even more gargantuan up close. Cecil’s fingers slip through his and squeeze. Carlos takes a deep breath, pushing open the spotless glass and wincing at his more than obvious fingerprints.

StrexCorp, being the giant producer it is, has pristine steel walls and shiny floors and phones that are answered methodically, never surpassing more than three rings. The main floor conceals several receptionists, women and men in crisp suits, talking smoothly on the phone. One catches his eye, and Carlos tugs Cecil along to the front desk, and puts on what he hopes is a smile.

She offers a blank one back, eyes flat and grey. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight bun, not a single strand out of place. Carlos thinks he sees a tattoo curled near the nape of her neck, shyly peeking out from her collar. She catches him staring, and it shrinks back.

“I’m here to pick up my, ah, Geiger counters. They told me to pick them up at Desert Bluffs headquarters, which is, uh, what I’m doing,” he stammers, unable to meet her cold glare.

“Down the hallway, third door to your left,” she says tightly, lips pressed and barely moving.

Carlos thanks her, walking with Cecil down the endless hallway, all numbered through various letters and what appear to be hieroglyphics. Cecil is silent beside him, hand gripping his tightly, sweaty and too hot. His silence is disconcerting, as Carlos has never seen his boyfriend so quiet and willing to let Carlos take the lead.

His gut clenches, winding a cold, prickly feeling into his stomach and up his throat. Carlos glances at Cecil, who looks as sick as Carlos feels. The hallway appears to be spinning in a drunken stupor. Or maybe it’s Carlos who’s spinning, anchored only by Cecil’s pale fingers and dull cuff links.

“Was it the third or the fourth door?” he mutters, mainly to Cecil’s sweater. The argyle parallelograms seem to be speaking to him in Latin.

“They all look weird to me,” and Carlos understands, the feeling the doors aren’t really there until he grips a handle, a cool metal (actual steel, not the substance that melted in his hands and screamed back in Night Vale).

Carlos twists the knob, feeling the lock click open and the door gives way to a white, sterile room. He recognizes a heart monitor and a row of scalpels organized perfectly on a tray. Over the television set, there’s a lump on the bed.

“Carlos, I don’t think we should be here,” Cecil calls behind him, but his voice is faint and Carlos’ heart and mind are racing with questions.

His fingers feel numb when he runs them over the scalpels. Everything is emblazoned with the StrexCorp logo, a silver sun with rays like lightning bolts. It’s all so _new_ , sleek and shiny and untouched. Carlos can’t remember the last time he saw such modern equipment.

“Carlos!” he hears, but it’s only a whisper, a tug on his conscience but that’s something far beneath things like curiosity and science and questions waiting to be answered, it’s far above his survival.

The lump on the bed shifts, revealing a pale expanse of smooth, unmarred skin. The gown seems to ride up, and Carlos can’t tear his eyes away from the row of stitches trailing along the iliac crest up to the second and primary ribs. The scar seems to have torn him in two.

Carlos racks his brain for information on StrexCorp, pulling up bright yellow pamphlets and laminated business cards. They wanted him to join, they arranged a meeting with his supervisor and offered twice the pay. He doesn't know why he refused, though, something about the unnaturally sharp teeth and outstanding warrants against the CEO and a bright, pulsating yellow Carlos could not remove from his mind for over two months told him to stay away.

The door swings open and Carlos turns his head so fast he fears whiplash. Cecil takes a step back, his shadow hunched defensively over Carlos. He reaches for Cecil’s hand, and his vision blurs, fading into yellow and white like the sundress his mother wore.

Reality is a lost concept now. Vaguely, he realizes he’s been struck unconscious, but that’s a ridiculous notion since he is unconscious and shouldn't be capable of logical thought, one more dose, there that’s it, the other one too, good. You’ll get a raise out of this one, my boy, I’ll see to that.

Choices don’t exist when you’re unconscious so Carlos can only close his eyes.

Reality is a lost concept now.

_____._ _ _ _ _


	2. A Recapture: Part A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil's list shifts, if only by a level. But every avalanche starts with one innocuous snowball.

 

 

Set fire to the broken pieces; start anew.

.

Regaining consciousness is not nearly as magical as the movies make it seem. Carlos feels inklings of sentience here and there, but it is a tiresome process, having only discovered that his toes and right hand are in working order. And his eyes too, only eyes, as his head feels heavy with fog.

His lips move, forming O’s and M’s and raspy incoherences that won't leave his throat. He tries again, feeling oxygen slip through his lungs and expand alveoli and osmose through blood vessels and Carlos can breathe now, properly without choking on his own tongue. The air smells conditioned and septic, having been sanitized and recycled for too long. It tastes bitter, like hotel soap.

“Cecil,” he croaks, the only familiar thing that sits on his tongue. Perhaps this now is the movie moment, where he summons all his strength and turns his head, expelling the too-clean air in a sigh of relief. Cecil’s prone form lays on the bed, his sweater vibrant and wonderful against the faded linen sheets.

“Carlos,” he hears, the voice still deep, but cracking, as though paper was caught in Cecil’s throat and he’s unfolding it through sound. Warm fingers brush his, Cecil’s thumb skating figure eights over his scaphoid. Upon observance, Cecil seems to be fine, paler than normal and eyes a muted ochre, lips bitten with worry. Instead of his usual sweater and coarse hair pants, Cecil is covered in a hospital gown, which matches the white of the sheets. It’s too big and Carlos can see his shadow swirling self-consciously against the pale skin of Cecil’s neck and shoulders. He strokes it affectionately, watching the shadow shift and wind fondly around his fingers. Carlos moves his neck, groaning at the sudden sparks of pain shooting up his tendons. He blinks rapidly, trying to discern an exit among the endless eggshell of the room. A small, shiny point of silver catches his eye. It’s near the foot of Cecil’s bed, shimmering around the edges like it’s not quite real.

“Cecil,” he hisses, voice still fragile for reasons he doesn’t want to know.

“Cecil, can you see that knob by your bed?” Carlos watches his head bob down, then continues.

“Try throwing something at it, just to see if it reacts,” Carlos passes him a scalpel, rusted with dry blood. Cecil throws with deadly accuracy, a gift from his mother, and the hook of the scalpel wedges inside the lock. He winces, clutching at his hand, and Carlos wants desperately to hold him close. His catatonic legs say otherwise.

“Neat!” Carlos says, not really filtering it, and the smile he gets from Cecil is equal parts blinding and embarrassed.

A plan is forming in his mind, half baked and soggy like the potatoes he shared with Cecil during their half-year anniversary. He thinks of how rare it was, sharing a meal with someone that didn’t include awkward small talk or complete ignorance. How easy and natural being with Cecil was, how it still is.

“We’re getting out of here,” he says, voice still raw and thin, but Carlos knows he means it. Cecil looks him in the eye, and nods.

“I know,” Cecil replies, and all the support and determination Carlos shook off as creepy a year ago is back full force, and he has never been more grateful.

 It takes a while, since summoning brain power has never been an actual _physical_ effort for him before. Finally, while talking over the details with Cecil and shaking his legs back into proper working order, their plan is done.

Cecil pushes himself off the bed, still stumbling, and reaches for the door knob. Rubber gloves fit tight over his hand, matching the rubber Carlos attached to the soles of his shoes. He isn't sure if Cecil would respond to electrical shock the way he would, but Carlos is too precautioned to take the risk. Carlos lays his hand overtop Cecil’s, and together they turn the knob. A sharp intake of breath, the deafening thud of their heartbeats and Carlos braces himself, curling an arm around Cecil’s waist. Mirroring him, Cecil grips the hem of his shirt tight and they inch down the hallway. It’s still dizzying, but the lights have been turned off and a dim yellow illuminates little. They reach the end of the hallway, faced once again with the giant front desk. The chairs swivel without an owner, and somewhere deep inside the building a machinated thrum of noise echoes. The door is so close.

“Guess the tranqs weren’t enough for these two, huh Morris?” Morris, whoever he is, is silent and Carlos prays he’s in some onset hallucination.Carlos and Cecil don’t have the excuse of sedatives for their incoherence this time. There’s a hand, thin and bony, on his shoulder. Morris is as tangible as his shoes scuffing the immaculate floor.

“Come with us,” says Morris, is it Morris with the melting slate eyes and thin, worry bitten lips?

The press of knuckles against his scapula mirrors the hand on Cecil. The other, the shorter one with the cold sneer and coffee stained eyes, leads them back into the hallways. Disappointment squeezes around his gut. Carlos wildly thinks Cecil and he can make a run for it, wrench their bodies out of Morris’ grip and dash wildly to the door. It isn’t until Daniels bends over to pick up her fallen keys does Carlos see the gun tucked into her waistband. Judging from the awkward bulge in Morris’ backside, he must have one too. They reach another room, identical to the first in which they were held, and the woman (called Daniels, K. Daniels on her shiny nametag) stops in front of the opened door.

“You wanna?” she offers to Morris, a cold glint in her eye.

“Sure,” Morris replies, expression blank and vacant, which scares Carlos more than Daniels’ apparent glee.

Once Daniels has left, Morris walks over the door and shuts it firmly. Punching in a key code, he configures the security cameras and closes the blinds. Most of the numbers he punched in were too quick for Carlos, but by the way Morris’ hands shake, Carlos figures he turned off the cameras. Morris hovers near the computer, scrolling and checking codes before facing Cecil and Carlos. He’s taller than the both of them, lean and gangly beneath the bleached white of his lab coat. A soft brown wave covers his head. Morris blinks twice, lingering his eyes on Cecil’s shadow, which has completely receded into the background and acts like a normal shadow, except for when it twitches, opposed to Cecil who sits like a statue.

“Night Vale,” he says, a question and its answer.

“Yes,” says Cecil. “And we would like to go back,” Only Carlos picks up on the tremor in his voice, the lowered pitch, until it straightens out to match the ruler of his back.

“Go back,” Morris echoes, not looking at anyone. Cecil’s shadow nods with Carlos. Perhaps they can cajole mercy and compassion out of this man.

“We were just here to pick up my Geiger counters,” Carlos pipes in.

“We went in the wrong room by accident,”

“Subject B44,” Cecil nods, compliant and amiable and all the things Carlos is not. He is in his element here, telling his story and persuading others to believe him. However, before Cecil can apologize and figure out a way to leave, Morris curves his lips into a hollow smile.

“That’s Kevin’s room, you know,” his voice tinged with fondness.

Cecil’s expression shifts, the knowledge he gained clashing with the opinions he formed, melding from surprise to turmoil to timid, confused compassion. He glances at Carlos, mouth agape and the full weight of their mistake sinking in their stomach like an anchor, which won’t let them leave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part was split in two, as it was too long for a single chapter.
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is highly appreciated.


	3. An Exercise in Introductions of Hope: Part B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope has her moment of glory.

 

Though surely to avoid attachments for fear of loss is to avoid life.

.

_Kevin._

Carlos feels the word roll around in his brain, bounce of the roof of his mouth and clack noisily against his teeth.

_The radio host, Kevin the radio host, there isn’t another Kevin for miles and miles it must be him it must be him Kevin who hurt Cecil Kevin who’s been hurt sliced in two Kevin Kevin._

His brain is chanting, praying to some god Carlos can lab test against, for coherence. Beside him, Cecil’s posture breaks, spine bowing to the weight of Morris’ words.

“What- what are you studying?” Cecil asks, voice soft and terrified. Carlos knows he’s very into science these days, of course he is, but he doesn’t understand why Cecil would make small talk now, after the prospects of their escape have dimmed.

Perhaps he is still trying, pushing a new, less invasive angle towards Morris.

Morris turns, hands steepled and eyes downcast, framed by long, almost transparent blond lashes. Carlos thinks of high school bullies, with their thin, boyish All American features and winter ocean irises. There’s a smooth rhythm to his movements, an almost grace Robert Crawford and James McKee wouldn’t have dared to display, not while knocking over beakers and grabbing Carlos by his ratty, second hand lab coat.

“You’ve seen too much for me to lie to you now, right?” he says, always answering his own questions. His words twist and turn, slow and deliberate like Carlos’ project coordinator, back in Anaheim.

Cecil gulps, turning his pleading gaze towards Carlos. He doesn’t know how to deal with this, and expects Carlos to help.

“What should I do?” Carlos whispers fiercely, watching Morris tilt his head to the ceiling and close his eyes.

“I- I don’t _know_ , Carlos. Maybe talk about science or something. It might pull focus from us,” Carlos sighs, tries to stifle the despair and anxiety of his situation and focus on the sweat gathering on his palms. He might be close to death, but Carlos would still find his greatest challenge to be small talk.

“Morris,” he starts out awkwardly, wincing at the cracks in his voice.

“Call me Jack,” Morris, Jack, doesn’t remove his eyes from the ceiling.

“Jack, right, well, ah, what university did you study at? Was it UCL-”

“Carlos,” Jack cuts him off with a soft voice. “I know you want to figure out a way to leave, and I’m trying to find the least horrible option, so I’ll need you to stop talking and let me think. If you need to refresh yourselves, there’s a washroom next door and some food in the break room. You will wear these glasses, and you will not take them off. Don’t go in the wrong room, and pay attention to the signs, not the doors or the hallways. Understand?”

Carlos and Cecil nod in unison. Surprisingly, it doesn’t sound like an order, too soft and flat to be anything but undeniable fact. They will use the washroom and eat and come straight back. Hopefully, Jack will help them and they won’t die in this sterile, properly ventilated building. Carlos lets Cecil use the washroom first, feigning politeness when he really is trying not to cry in front of his boyfriend, though he suspects a few dry sobs traveling through the steel door. Hope sits quiet and ignored in his chest, like a shy student considered useless for most of the year. Carlos doesn’t let it shine. There are donuts and juice in the break room, sticky and unhealthy and so _normal_ he could cry, but he did already, and Carlos doesn’t want to waste anymore bodily fluids. Cecil sticks close, for which Carlos is grateful, sagging against his boyfriend’s arm and laying his head atop his shoulder.

“Do you think Jack will help us?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Cecil’s voice is mysterious and unhelpful. Carlos wants solid proof and evidence that escape is a valid option. His cheek scratches against the fleece.

Cecil wipes the crumbs from his face and pecks a soft, closed kiss to his mouth. It’s reassuring, almost enough to dispel his dark thoughts. Carlos presses back, a little desperate and scared, wrapping his fingers around Cecil’s humerus. They share a breath, warm and human (99.9% human, Carlos isn’t picky), and part, walking hand in hand back to the room. Cecil’s eyes never leave the black and white signs, and Carlos mainly stares at the curve of his jaw and ignores the hallways.

Jack doesn’t even blink an eyelash when they enter together, looking as such with intertwined fingers. Carlos catches something akin to wistfulness in his gaze, before he blinks it away, like what he does with all traces of emotion.

“You’re not getting your Geigers,” Jack starts off, as if Carlos could muster enough energy to care about them anyways.

“Usually with visitors, we ask them to put on special sunglasses,” Quotation marks around the word _special_ , almost sarcastic.

“To avoid optic disruptions or injuries through lasers or other high frequency light radiation. You two must have avoided the glasses, perhaps the receptionist forgot her programming and didn’t tell you to wear them,”

Carlos fiddles with the lens on his glasses, tinged green. He feels like Dorothy entering a sinister version of the Emerald City. Or maybe that’s the expired donuts talking. Thinking. Are donuts capable of cognition?

“They do send an electrical signal to your brain, much like a neuron, to disorient and confuse you until you find your destination. This time, I’ll program your lenses and send you back through the security system, with new profiles,”

Carlos removes the glasses and Jack goes back to being human, and Cecil stops floating on the ceiling. The plan sounds simple enough, but Carlos figures there is always a catch. He asks for one. “Your memory will be wiped,” he says, vaguely apologetic. “It’s the only legal way,”

“How much will we lose?” Cecil asks.

“Give or take, the minimum is three years,”

They’ve been together for less than one. Carlos can’t risk losing Cecil, losing his love and admiration and the memories they built, soggy potatoes and bowling alleys and brilliant lights above fast food stations. Cecil pales and Carlos bites his lip with worry. They look at each other, and no, Carlos decides, it’s too new and tentative to risk forgetting.

“Is there any other way, without memory loss?” Carlos asks, fingers knotted tightly with Cecil’s. Jack looks between them, the same flicker of emotion Carlos saw before, and his lips tug into a small, rare smile. His eyes crinkle when they’re genuine.

“I had a feeling you two would want that,” and his face is exultant, impatient in the prospect of triumph. Carlos looks at Cecil, feeling the same apprehension and nerves flow through his veins. Hope rises, smiling bright and proud and promising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part, finally here, featuring Jack and Daniels and Kevin the bed lump. More of him in future chapters!
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is highly appreciated. As are the bookmarks and kudos. Thank you.


	4. A Validation of Radio Wave Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funhouse mirror of quite literal proportions.

 

 

 Every one that sweareth by him shall glory: but the mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped.

.

Plans require parlance, words of escape and dismantling that are hushed and softened through the thick steel doors. Between the efficient planning that goes on between the three of them, Carlos catches snippets of Jack Morris’ life before StrexCorp.

“Wait, how are you going to disable the entire security system if it’s the most heavily guarded floor in here?”

“There’s a code,” Jack shrugs, as if he does that sort of thing everyday. Cecil raises a brow at him, and Carlos starts to think they aren’t the only ones trying to escape.

Carlos can see the sun hot and high through the translucent window of their room. Their gear is surprisingly light, only lab coats and a small clicker Jack’s thumb twitches over every few seconds. Seeing Cecil in a lab coat is strange, but not unwelcome, so Carlos smiles and gives him an awkward thumbs up from across the room. Cecil flushes, and sends another one shyly back. Jack looks between them with a faintly bemused smile.

“Remember,” he instructs, voice heavy with meaning. “You will see things and hear things and you will not react. StrexCorp employees are accustomed to their jobs, and you aren’t. The slightest hint of emotion can give you away,”

Cecil and Carlos nod in unison. Instead of using the hallways, Jack leads them out through the staff room, which is adorned in posters of StrexCorp’s newest endeavours. Cecil points to one newspaper clipping, a faded colour picture of a man holding two rats in his palm. The articles lead on to the latest picture, from last week. It’s the same man, greyed and wrinkled, standing between two women with blank expressions. They look like twins.

Jack brings them into a corner, directly below a security camera, the only blind spot in the room. He clips ID cards on the lapels of their coat, and Carlos becomes J. Davis and Cecil becomes L. Fitzgerald. Jack hands them dark glasses that conceal most of their face.

“You guys will see what I see. This technology forges a connection between our brains, through static and radio waves. It helps when I want you to focus or when we can’t speak directly to each other,”

“Does it work?” Cecil asks doubtfully, turning the frames over in his hands.

“I should hope so,” Jack replies, something akin to a smirk on his lips. “I designed it,” Carlos fights his smile, placing the glasses over his eyes and blinking. Everything looks the same, if a little darker. They set out, immediately entering a stream of lab coats and business suits. His pulse quickens, and Carlos sticks close to Cecil and Jack as they navigate their way through the floors. The stairways tilt sideways, probably due to the spired structure of the building. A few people wave to Jack, and he smiles apologetically, gesturing to his newest associates Davis and Fitzgerald. Jack’s smile is as fake as his excuse. A sharp buzz of pain through his skull, fleeting and quick.

 _Focus_ , says something in his head, sharp and quick. They enter another hallway. Carlos stares incredulously at Jack’s shoulders, catching Cecil doing the same thing. Finally, after too many twists and turns Carlos can’t remember, they leave the building.

The sun is hot and high above their heads, pulsating brightly. Cecil’s shadow falls quickly behind him and acts as normal as possible, sensing the importance of its compliance. The heavy steel garage shuts with the code Jack punches in, set to a time of five hours. He signs off as K. Daniels, and only then Carlos notices the switched ID card. The man thinks of everything.

Jack leads them behind a beige structure, flat and windowless. Large antennae spring forth from the roof.

“We’re making a stop here,” he says, nervous and hushed.

“A stop?” Carlos exclaims, eyes widening. “You didn’t say anything about a stop!”

“It won’t take long,” Jack promises, slipping behind the concrete corner. Carlos sighs in exasperation, nerves jangled. He turns to Cecil, trying to catch his eye. Cecil isn’t responding, eyes fixed on a patch of concrete.

“Cecil?” Carlos’ voice wavers. “What are you looking at?” Cecil is silent, only lifting a long, spindly finger to the concrete. It feels rough against his cheek, and Carlos peers in, trying to discern anything unusual. He pushes his glasses up his nose and squints, spotting tiny splashes of blood on the walls.

“I’ve been here before,” Cecil is an unflinching pillar of fear. Carlos gulps, slowly feeling pieces connect into his brain. The antennae, the StrexCorp Sun staring down at the both of them. This is the Desert Bluffs radio station. On cue, Jack emerges from the building, walking side by side with a man. Immediately, Carlos knows it is Kevin, in a dress shirt and blue jeans. His tie has a ducky on it. Cecil stiffens next to him, his fear traveling in waves through Carlos, wild and quick.

Kevin smiles, eyes hollow and mouth twisted into a soft smile. The resemblance to Cecil is uncanny, both with floppy hair framing their foreheads, and an upturn to their nose. Carlos found it adorable on Cecil, but he feels a sick twist in his chest when he looks at Kevin. It seems only Carlos and Cecil are perturbed by Kevin. Jack has a half-smile and a softness to his eyes that is all too familiar, and he stands close enough for Kevin’s shoulder to press against his chest. What Carlos does not expect is the soft, musical quality of Kevin’s voice. He greets Carlos with polite disinterest, but his eyes (the same shade as Cecil’s but fractured by the black of his pupil, _coloboma_ , his mind supplies) light up when he sees Cecil.

“Night Vale Radio!” Kevin exclaims, holding out a hand. Cecil recoils, stepping back and clenching his fists. Carlos thinks of when Cecil came back from the studio months ago, shaking and covered in bruises.

_“He tried to strangle me, Carlos,” Cecil won’t stop shivering. His words are not more than babbled incoherencies, like a child woken up from a nightmare. Carlos supposes it was a nightmare. “And the studio, oh perfect Carlos, the studio. Blood and viscera everywhere, piles and piles. It wouldn’t end,” Cecil had started sobbing then, broken and vulnerable and bare, and Carlos wrapped an arm around his shoulder and tried not to think of where Cecil could’ve gone._

Carlos blinks back from the memory, feeling the same fear and apprehension he did months ago. Kevin’s face falls, eyes cast downwards and embarrassed. Jack looks between them with a narrow gaze, lips set in a thin line.

“Let’s go,” he says, leading the three of them behind the gates of Desert Bluffs. Cecil and Carlos hang back, hang onto each other and try not to hear the conversation between Kevin and Jack. It’s hard, though, with Jack’s instructions to stay close.

“Where are we going?” Kevin asks, and Carlos finds it harder to stomach this man as a violent monster. He sees the same conflict in Cecil, plainly written across the line between his furrowed brow. Jack pauses, the wheels in his brain turning before sending Kevin a sweet smile, making Carlos look away uncomfortably. Cecil, however, can’t stop staring, eyes glued to the men in front.

“A walk,” Jack says. “Just to clear our minds,” he winds an arm around Kevin, a little awkward. Carlos guesses they aren’t as close as they’d like to be.

His fingers travel near the belt of Kevin’s jeans. For a moment, Carlos’ eyes widen, and he desperately looks at Cecil. Surely Jack isn’t going to be inappropriate, in front of all of them, when they still haven’t escaped properly. Cecil stares back, jaw dropping a little. Instead, Jack seems to flick something, a switch or a button, near the belt loops and then retracts his hand. Carlos waits for any change in Kevin’s posture, a slump of some sort. There isn’t any, and Kevin walks with the same gait, occasionally brushing Jack’s fingers against his own.

Sand kicks up around their feet, and the sun dips low into the dunes. A few cacti stand tall, arms bent into goodbyes. Desert Bluffs is behind them.

.

Kevin, somehow, is not talkative, for all that he’s claimed to be Cecil’s double. After his failed attempt at introducing himself to Cecil, he mainly converses with Jack. Carlos longs to ask him about the stitches, about StrexCorp and Jack, all as equally mysterious as Kevin himself. They have all discarded the glasses, Jack flinging them far over the sand dunes. Later, stars hang like pearls in the sky, and Jack suggest they sleep for the night.

“Not you?” Cecil asks, pointedly avoiding Kevin’s eye.

“We’ll be fine,” Jack waves them off, sending Carlos and Cecil off into the sand wastes to find a suitable place to sleep.

A flat ridge greets them, fifty feet away from where Jack has pulled out a lamp and is reading something on an e-reader, Kevin leaning into his shoulder. “They’re not us,” Carlos says, and he isn’t sure as all his observations prove there are indeed more similarities than differences, but he doesn’t trust his science now. Cecil nods, not quite convinced. He pats the edge of the ridge with his hand, beckoning Carlos.

He complies, laying his head against Cecil’s shoulder. The lights above Radon Canyon dance uncaring, and Carlos wishes he could understand them once more, here in the desert.

.

Nothing but the promise of escape wakes them. The sky is purpled with sleepiness, hints of sunrise casting slight orange lights above them. They walk towards Kevin and Jack, who sleep apart, bodies curled like parentheses. An arm here, and a leg there, but they do not touch. Carlos thinks he feels a hint of sympathy for the controlled chaos that keeps the two apart. In sleep, there are no frowns or tightened muscles on Jack’s face, but Kevin looks as he does awake, peaceful and calm. Carlos wonders if he is aware of who anyone is except for Jack and Cecil.

Carlos finds the entire process awkward, hand hesitant and unsure where it rests on Kevin’s shoulder. He might have adverse reactions to being touched while vulnerable, and from the caution Cecil exercises with Jack, Carlos tries not to shake him so hard. In the end, what wakes the pair is Cecil whispering in their ear. “Good morning, Jack, _good morning_ ,” announced in the radio announcer’s voice, smooth and sinuous in the early dawn. He mutters the same phrase for Kevin’s ear, lips brushing the skin. Their reaction is instant, Jack’s eyes flying open and Kevin awaking with start, both looking around wildly and gasping.

“Did _you_ say that?” Kevin asks, momentarily forgetting the barriers between him and Cecil. At Cecil’s nod, he shivers.

Carlos finds their reactions incomprehensible, but as much as he strives to ignore it, curiosity itches rudely under his skin. Jack scrubs at his eyes and stretches, bones snapping together after a long night of fitful sleep. Kevin rises, pulling at the ducky tie and loosening his collar. They walk together in silence, Jack and Kevin in the front, leading the way as if they know the desert by heart. The cool desert breeze dissipates by mid-noon, Carlos’ throat burning along with it.

“Water?” His throat is filled with sand.

“Everything you need is in the lab coat,” Jack replies, as if the heavy garment wasn’t beading sweat onto Carlos’ forehead. He reaches into the pockets, and pulls out a miniature flask. Cecil does the same, eyeing the contents before tentatively placing his lips on the opening. Carlos watches, ready for anything, really, and waits until Cecil finishes his sip and looks at Carlos. Disbelief is evident on his face, the surprise of plain water and nothing else. Carlos does the same, and cool water flows through his throat like a salve. Desert Bluffs and Night Vale are an equal distance from their position, if Carlos remembers the GPS coordinates correctly. At their speed, it would take another day for them to reach Night Vale.

Carlos thinks of Sunday school and a tired old man walking across the desert and his mother complaining of the summer heat. Memories swirl in his mind, names and dates and the year he memorised the Bible and spent his career undermining its teachings. He remembers being scorned for his lack of faith.

_“Science isn’t everything, Carlos,” his mother admonishes, wiping blood off his cheek. Robert Crawford had a cruel fist and a crueler heart. Carlos never went to the wrong Church after that incident. If he was honest, he never went to Church again._

_Robert would’ve been pleased._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love some convenient flashbacks while walking through the desert?
> 
> Carlos. 
> 
> Many thanks to cryogenia for the thought provoking comment, which turned the path of this chapter for what I believe to be the better. This also applies to the kudos and bookmarks. Thank you. 
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is highly appreciated.


	5. A Song for the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keep your vital internal organs in a box, and don’t let someone sweet and charming take them away, even for your annual check up.

 

 

 

We are only built to spill and wonder where the heart went.

.

By the fourth day, Carlos is ready to scream. The desert is endless, dunes atop dunes, wind shaping them in perpetual motion. Through their travels, Jack and Kevin have persistently remained strangers, to Carlos and Cecil, and to each other. He isn’t sure how much finger brushing he can take.

Cecil, whom Carlos has admired for his patience, has several tanlines on his arms and legs. They form tiger stripes on his back, and hiss when Carlos tries to rub ointment on them. Cecil’s eyes match the sand dunes, and consequently so do Kevin’s, which confuses Carlos in ways he doesn’t want to acknowledge. His jaw clenches every time they climb over a dune, just to find another one.

Supplies are plentiful, which also remains a mystery, as the flask of water only has a capacity for fifty millilitres, but is always full when Carlos takes a sip. The only thing that seems to be dwindling is Carlos’ energy and patience.

When they set up camp, Carlos feels himself snap. A twig breaking, a spark of anger and frustration building up until he would burn up from the inside if he let it stay.

“How are you completely okay with any of this, Jack?”

Jack looks up through his lashes, so oblivious Carlos wants to punch him. Of course, he doesn’t talk, only raises a brow for further clarification. His hands remain methodical, sweeping away sand and popping up the makeshift tent.

Carlos tries again.

“You know exactly when to rest and where a flat ridge is and, and..” Carlos feels his words clog up his throat, a barrage of insults he doesn’t even know.

“It’s like you _planned_ this, all of this!” a cold finger up his back. Realization dawns on him, heavy and all-encompassing.

Jack straightens, looking anything but gangly and thin-boned. He reminds Carlos of crappy action movies he watched with his mother, only cajoled by the promise of pyrotechnics. Jack must’ve been the villain you didn’t suspect until the second installation.

“Of course I planned this, Carlos. How else were we to escape?”

His voice is as smooth and calm as ever, yet still attracts the attention of Kevin, who was humming softly near the tent. Cecil joins him, still wary, and Carlos half-expects them to chant _fight fight fight_ in his ear.

They don’t, because this is not a crappy action movie, this is Cecil’s life and his life at stake, which scares Carlos because they might lose it due to this unflappable nutcase.

“You knew my name from the beginning,” Carlos says, voice softening. “You knew our names and what we came here for and you, you _made sure_ we were only exposed to you the whole time,” his voice shakes with the accusations, but Carlos knows he’s right.

Jack blinks, eyes pale and blue and out of place in the unforgiving desert.

“I helped you,” he says, too cold and calm, still not showing how he truly feels. Carlos is sick of the mask.

“You controlled us,” he says, malice creeping into his tone. Carlos glances over at Kevin, staring childlike up at the sky, lashes framing his soft eyes and mouth parted in an O.

“You control everyone, don’t you?”

Easy confidence slips into his bones. Deep down, Carlos knows he’s being vindictive and cruel, but he figures emotion is better than the game he’s an unwilling part of.

Jack’s reaction is instantaneous, eyes lighting up like magnesium in water. He doesn’t move, just lets sparks shoot through his eyes, and the wind howls between them and around them. For a second, Carlos sees his gaze flick to Kevin, then back to Carlos, the full brunt of an icy winter in his iris. Carlos’ skin prickles with the freezer burn feeling of the glare.

“Desert Bluffs would’ve killed you,” he says, the words dropping from his mouth like marbles.

Carlos grits his teeth. He isn’t thinking, not really, the flow of adrenaline pushing anger further up his body. It must be blocking the oxygen to his brain.

“I wish it had,”

. 

Finally, on the last day of their travels, Carlos spots the misshapen cacti hunched over the shoulder of the road. It’s the trademark of Night Vale, the prickly arms pointing to the faded green sign. Their town is only a few miles away.

Jack stops suddenly, rounding the welcome sign and kicking up sand as he goes. He remains frigid and aloof as he beckons Carlos over.

“ID?” he asks, not looking at anything but the expanse of purpling sky. Navy clouds hang overhead, a giant bruise dotted with white stars. They look like platelets, scatters of them.

J. Davis hangs from his neck, but Carlos remembers his ID in the pocket of the lab coat (from where it was found unknown to most). He hands the plastic card to Jack, warped from the heat and sagging.

Carlos wonders what Jack would swipe the card into, however, he only leans against the board. A cool breeze sweeps over them. Cars hum in the distance, motorized rhythms and the occasional honk.

“What are you waiting for?” Carlos asks, unable to contain his impatience. Jack presses on the clicker twice and continues staring at nothing in particular.

“Portal,”

Cecil’s eyes fly open, body once again stiff against Carlos’. From his memory, the portal seemed like a purple tunnel, an inverted colour version of the Aurora Borealis dancing along the walls. Apparently the portal is taking its time.

“Dr. Morris?” a voice behind them. Upon turning, Carlos sees Kevin blinking and looking around confusedly.

Jack turns, stepping between Carlos and Cecil to find Kevin. Carlos mirrors him, because there is something terrifyingly wrong about his demeanour. When he comes closer, peering over Jack’s shoulder and clutching Cecil’s arm, Carlos feels a gasp escape his throat.

The soft amber of his iris has been swallowed up by pitch black, dots of such crowding his sclera and traveling like ants down his cheek bones and neck. They form horizontal stripes below his jaw, ink skating across the skin to form a sun with lightning bolt rays.

Cecil lets out a shriek, stepping back and pulling Carlos back with him.

Kevin looks around, movements fluid as he focuses on Jack. The StrexCorp logo stretches when his throat bobs up and down.

“Dr. Morris,” his voice is horrid, flat and computerized. “Is B44-53 out of the parameters restriction for Desert Bluffs research facility?”

Carlos spares a glance to Jack, who’s face is as blank as Kevin’s, but Carlos can see the wheels turning furiously in his brain.

“This is Dr. Daniels,” he says, calm, but not sounding like K. Daniels at all. He steps close to Kevin and holds the ID card to his eyes, scanning it through.

“It’s not nice to lie, Dr. Morris,” a sweet tone over from Kevin’s mouth, pitched high enough to be a woman. It sounds human enough, still succumbing to long distance static.

Jack swallows, eyes flicking between Kevin’s eyes and mouth, both of which now out of his control. The logo seems to be pulsating, stark against the fragile skin of Kevin’s neck. His lips move soundlessly, waiting for audio.

A loud hum interrupts them, sounding like a deeper, more guttural version of Khoshek’s meow. Carlos turns, finding the tips of his toes over a chasm, opalescent. The lights dance, this time pink and white and angry red near the edges. Sand pours in as the maw of the abyss widens.

Behind them, the connection between Jack and StrexCorp struggles, static crackling loudly and breaking up any sentences. Finally, it breaks completely, and Kevin’s mouth snaps shut. He blinks until the colour returns to his eyes, and the logo dissipates from his neck.

“They know we’re here,” Cecil is panicked.

Noisy rotor blades deafen them, and Carlos sees two Secret Police officers climbing down the ladder. Cecil, still the loyal citizen, attempts to call them closer. Jack swats his arm angrily.

“They aren’t here to help,” he hisses, backing the three of them farther behind. “If anyone from StrexCorp breaches security, they and all associates are killed!”

A moment’s panic, and the world slows down. Carlos holds on to Cecil’s arm and breathes, watching the helicopter advance further. His inability to make a decision is frustrating.

Jack turns, something firm in his eyes.

“Go through the portal,” he says, moving away from it. “You’ll be back in Night Vale,"

Carlos finds himself shaking his head, which must be one of those involuntary muscle movements he has absolutely no control over. Just like the words coming out of his mouth.

“We’re not leaving you behind, Jack. You or Kevin,” Kevin who’s eyes are not fractured but the clear, clear auburn of sentience. There is fear, and behind the golden flecks, trust.

Maybe if Jack was not trained for seven years to feel nothing but scientific curiosity, this would be an emotional moment. As of now, he finds it unnecessary and impractical.

But Jack is one thing Kevin and Cecil are not, which is human, 100% susceptible to deadly viruses and even deadlier emotions. Summoning considerable strength, he pushes Carlos and Cecil down the portal, and thinks perhaps it would be easier if he escaped with them, for a moment of sentiment. Kevin looks at him, and he is Awake now, and even more beautiful when sedatives aren’t clogging his brain.

Jack steps up to Kevin, a palm on his chest and an apology on his lips. Kevin understands his plight, and doesn’t protest when he is pushed off the edge.

The chasm starts closing, the timer on his watch ticks to the final nanoseconds, and all Jack feels is relief before StrexCorp splits him in two.

.

End Part One

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all for the wonderful patience with this story. I am currently out of town, and internet access was a bit comme ci, comme ça. The kudos and bookmarks and comments are a show of support and interest, for which I am thankful.
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is highly appreciated.


	6. A Paradox for the Non-Human Condition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything can exist, in some plane or another, until entropy kicks in.

 

 

 

 

Just because something bears the aspect of the inevitable one should not, therefore, go along willingly with it.

.

Falling into a portal, the portal, having Carlos’ figure with him one moment and disappear into sand the next is ample trauma for panic to set in. It seeps in through the sand, smooth and sinister against the rough grains, choking Cecil from the inside. His heart rate soars, rabbit fast until it stops softly, numbing his nerves. There are voices, but there are always voices in such situations, and panic is the only thing animal (human, he is _human_ ) grounding him. It claws at the sand, pulling handfuls out of his mouth and ears and eyelids until Cecil can see, partly, a miasma of granules surrounding his body.

He is suspended, anti-gravity but not, unlike the circumstances in which Mayor Winchell sent them to a special flying facility and had them hover in the air while answering basic trigonometric questions. It is almost like he is floating in sand. Cecil lifts his arm, finally gaining sensation back into his body. Heartbeat is still iffy, but he thinks he is nearly whole now.

To be complete, he needs Carlos. Basic laws of physics (Carlos would be so delighted that he knew all of them by heart) dictate if he pulls apart clumps of sand and kicks off, he will still accelerate in what he hopes is a positive motion. Convinced he isn’t going in circles, Cecil holds his breath, and sets out for Carlos.

.

The sand is not going to hurt him. The sand created him. Kevin breathes it in, and he feels almost replete. He knows his thoughts echo Cecil’s, his life echoes Cecil’s and perhaps that has reduced him to the significance of a grain of sand to nearly all. A series of digits and units, his name and his worth. Jack wanted to save him in the stupid way all humans want to preserve what is theirs.

Jack is not his own.

His bones are not his own.

The sand is his.

.

Carlos does not have the chance for thoughts. Not many, to be honest, only that he has choked on water and blood and air and it is fitting his last should be sand. Oh, and yes, he thinks sadly, eyes drooping and throat itching, mouth a beach for children to play on. Yes, he thinks, for coherence, for love.

_Cecil._

.

In the end, the only thing that is accomplished is the destruction of the portal. Self-destruction, really, as Carlos could only gape as it shrank, lights fizzing out until it had the spite of a fireworks sparkler. A final burst, greenish ivory light exploding behind his retina and sending shockwaves through his body. Carlos comes to shortly afterwards, body prone in Cecil’s arms. He spits out sand and watches it pour from his sleeves and shoes. There are bruises on his inner cheeks from where he bit them, clamping down to prevent grains into his windpipe. It takes a few minutes for Carlos to regain his speech.

Cecil beats him to it.

“Where are we?” he asks, voice unaffected. There is not a single grain of sand on Carlos’ boyfriend, nor on Kevin.

Carlos looks around, gaze landing on familiar cracks in the pavement, tiny ponds of excess in the shallow crevices. The concrete is damp and crumbling, unlike the rust brick walls which stand firm and tall against their backs. Kevin walks forward, gingerly, as if he is trying not to touch anything.

“Night Vale,” his voice belies his careful behaviour. “Although you would know the place better,”

It is indeed Night Vale, if the sense of relief flooding through Carlos’ system is anything to go by. Also, something emanating lavender light is hovering in the distance, flapping feathers (a flock of birds, sane people would say) and shuffling awkwardly in the corner, not wanting to intrude.

“Erika?” Carlos calls out, softly, and making sure to avert his eyes. Erika steps in front, dressed in simple slacks and a polo. They refuse to speak, only shifting their feathers and staring away into nothing in particular. Carlos thinks of Jack, but then tells himself not to, since he can’t handle the crushing weight of leaving someone behind, even if they wanted it.

“Cecil,” their throat contains an orchestra, a thousand cellos and a million flutes, beautiful to the point of terror. The melody lifts, Erika is delighted, turning to look at Cecil, who quickly affirms their existence by shaking their hand and asking about the weather.

Queen has been playing all week.

They glance at Kevin, and Kevin glances back, again unaffected. Erika presses a kiss to his forehead, branding the skin with heart shaped lips and girly, pre-teen lip gloss. It fades, eventually, like all Angel marks, but Carlos still sees Kevin rubbing at the skin. It pleases him that Kevin is not completely immune to what makes Night Vale Night Vale.

“Old Woman Josie,” they direct, leading them out from Big Rico’s alley onto the main street.

Rush hour traffic is quiet, garbled engines and soft music spilling from the radio. It is indeed all Queen.

Old Woman Josie (Carlos calls her ma’am, just to save the embarrassment of saying _Old Woman_ out loud) has a house near the outskirts of the town. Small, with creaking steps and wood, clung on to desperately by sparse flecks of paint.

“Shame, really,” Erika says, scratching at their beard. “The locusts were heavy this season. Left not a single paint chip unturned,”

Inside the house, Josie sits still in a rocking chair, which unlike the counterpart steps, is shined to a polish. It does not creak, only the fluid motion of back and forth, until Erika clears their throat and taps her lightly on the shoulder. The wool of her cardigan burns, then fizzles.

“Erika!” a delighted laugh, and Josie turns her neck until her weathered face is smiling at all of them. Cardboard wrinkles line her eyes and mouth, but she exuberantly embraces Cecil and Carlos with warm arms.

She hugs Cecil again.

“I thought there were two of you,” she giggles, very unlike her age.

Kevin stands awkwardly behind her, the only emotion Carlos has seen on his face since the portal. Erika clears her throat, turning Josie in Kevin’s direction. Josie blinks, eyelids drooping with collagen loss. She puts on thick, heavy glasses and peers at Kevin until their noses touch.

“Hello dear,”

“Hello,”

Erika whispers something in her ear. Carlos can see a faint blush blooming against Kevin’s ducky tie collar, pink with embarrassment.

“Kevin, is it?”

“Y-yes,” Kevin barely has time to respond before he too is swallowed up in her embrace.

“Well then,” she gestures to the rooms behind her. “Come on in,”

.

Josie’s home is small, bursting with ornate furniture and trinkets from the past. Carlos almost trips over a gramophone trying to follow her.

She sits them down on a soft, fluffy couch that sags in the middle. Due to gravity, all the occupants are pulled to the centre, a giant black hole of awkwardness as Kevin and Cecil try not to roll onto his lap. Heat burns his cheeks.

Carlos hears a trumpet flare. Erika might be laughing.

Josie sets plates of cookies in their hands, chocolate chip and warm from the oven.The last time Carlos had a cookie in Night Vale, it tasted like metal, of pennies and house keys. These ones seem harmless, or as harmless they can get, and the bite he takes out of them confirms his suspicions. Soft, and burned a bit in the edges. Carlos surreptitiously scrapes the black bits off onto the plate. Josie watches them, the self satisfaction of others enjoying her creations evident on her face. She waits until Carlos has his mouth full of cookie.

“You went to Desert Bluffs, hmm?” Carlos does not question how she knew that.

“Yes, ma’am,”

“And you brought someone back without filling out a Foreigner Application form?” Kevin blinks confusedly.

“We didn’t think of that,” Cecil apologizes.

“But we need your help, Old Woman Josie,” He goes on to explain their predicament, but Carlos can’t get over the fact he called her _Old Woman_ to her face. Finally, when Cecil is done, Josie looks at the three of them, nose scrunched in concentration.

“There was another one?”

“Yes,” Cecil looks at Kevin nervously.

“A scientist at the research facility. Jack,” It’s the first time Carlos has heard Jack’s name in 24 hours.

“He helped us escape, but he stayed back,” Cecil trails off. Kevin’s jaw is clenched but he remains silent. 

“Something is going on over there, and we think Jack might get hurt,” Carlos interjects. “I mean, StrexCorp sounded quite upset when they figured out what happened,” Upset is an understatement.

“StrexCorp?” Josie cuts him off. “That’s still around?” Cecil nods to answer her question.

Still? What did she mean by _still_? Carlos’ head spins with questions, but he gets the feeling answers are not within the burnt crumbs on his plate. Josie sighs, and Erika echoes her with a wilting melody.

“Oh dear,” she folds her hands in her lap and looks out the window where Mike Sandero 2.0 is practicing basketball.

“StrexCorp has been around longer than Josie,” Erika explains.

Josie adopts a pensive look on her face. Carlos’ gut clenches with anxiety.

“This might be a problem,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back in town, which means back to school, which means inevitable delays in posting. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Also, I personally feel The Angels are ambiguous in their gender, a wonderful mix of masculine and feminine only holy beings such as themselves can pull off. 
> 
> Feel free to comment with your own interpretations!


	7. An Altercation of Events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josie shares a history lesson.

 

 

 

 

 

Death, my son, is a good thing for all men; it is the night for this worried day that we call life.

.

The basketball thumps outside, the hollow twang of pressurized air against concrete. One, two, three bounces and it takes off, the swoosh of air as it lands in the basket and a triumphant whoop outside their door. Mike (the new one, the better smarter faster one) pounds his fist in the air. It sends a smile hurtling through the air, stopping quickly and curving her lips into a gentle smile.

.

Josie has been around since StrexCorp, maybe even earlier. She recalls stories as a young girl, where she wore gingham dresses and listened to Night Vale Radio and tried to ignore the dirty looks some townsfolk gave her when she walked past. Carlos finds it hard to believe that this town didn’t always have a soft spot in their hearts (and stomachs) for Josie.

“It was different then,” she waves off their concern. “Some people were stuck in time spills,”

Time spills, according to Josie, are when people are suddenly seized by floes of time that ooze from Radon Canyon at every turning point in history. Some unfortunate souls are propelled almost two hundred years back, altering their values, beliefs and most importantly, fashion sense. It was particularly bad in the 70’s.

“But those weren’t the worst of our problems, you know. StrexCorp came along, all high and mighty with its stock shares and transnationality, trying to buy us out,”

“What for?” Cecil asks, anxious and Carlos realizes he isn’t the only one scared of the answer. Even Kevin’s ears are tilted towards Josie, sharp and alert.

“Experiments,” she says wearily, as if she has heard it a million times. Carlos guesses she probably has.

“It was for _science_ , they said,”

Carlos remembers all the times he’s blown off Cecil for dates, star-watching or potato sharing, in the name of science. He ducks his head, avoiding Josie’s gaze.

She knows and she has always known, which makes his throat go dry.

“Mayor Winchell refused, so StrexCorp left and claimed Desert Bluffs. Just as well, that town was dying out. Something ‘bout kids not coming out right,”

Her nose scrunches again, and Carlos can think of several medical incidences for babies that don’t “come out right”, but Josie seems to have remembered.

“It was a scary thing, back then. People were desperate, and the promise of salvation won them over,”

“Were the children saved?” Kevin’s voice is flat and terrified. Carlos looks at him, at the throb of his throat against the collar, the loosened tie pale against the bright Aretha Franklin poster behind them. He looks sick, bitten lips and lines drawing around his eyes.

“There were no children at all, after that,” her voice is ominous, filled with thunderclouds and the desperation of a thousand people.

Erika shakes their head, eyes downcast. One eye catches his, and the spinach green looks sad and remorseful. They rake their fingers through their hair. A few soft strands fall back into place, others catch into the fingers and tug back, until Erika loses several hairs to the knots on their head.

“We didn’t have all that much to do those days,” they sigh.

“Still don’t,” they remind each other. “If you think about it,”

Carlos does not.

.

Erika agrees instantly to help them, lured by the promise of adventure. They giggle excitedly and talk amongst themselves about how exciting it would be to visit Desert Bluffs again.

“This isn’t an adventure,” Josie admonishes. “ There are too many variables for this to be an adventure,”

But she agrees to help, begrudgingly, after some pleading (from Carlos) and cajoling (from Cecil) and the hopeful flicker of Kevin’s eyes between the two, and his need is palpable. Instead of going anywhere, they just sit on the sagging couch, watching Josie rummage around her diaries and notebooks for a phone number.

Erika sings for them while they wait, a soft voice with the multitude of several choirs. Everything from pop to rock to heavy metal, to songs without names or genres or existence anywhere outside the four walls, until one phrase makes them chuckle.

“How novel,” their cheeks are pinked with laughter and exuberance. Carlos can’t fathom their happiness at a time like this. “Hands from above wouldn’t be _good enough_ for them,”

More snickers, and the shuffling of papers, until Josie pulls out her glasses and a tiny stock card with a number scrawled across it. She reaches for her smartphone, mumbling about horrible reception, and keys in a number. A phone rings on the other end, three times, and is promptly picked up. A static filled voice greets her on the other end.

“May I talk to Bill?” The voice wastes no time in directing her call.

Josie introduces herself formally, with details Carlos didn’t think were necessary for over-the-phone interactions.

“Josephine Carol Williams, of Night Vale. Yes, yes gingham and calico, and no, absolutely no nuts as sprinkles,”

“What can I do for you, Josie?” The voice on the other end is jovial, cruel and kind like the voice overs on a weight loss commercial. 

"If you did anything for me, Bill, I’d be dead a long time ago,” she chuckles and so does Bill, but in a tight strained way. This is obviously for show. She goes on to explain her situation, but says very little when you think about it. Summarizing a situation which is too broad to be summarized, but she does it anyway.

“Dr. Jack Morris is fine,” Bill says, tightly. “There is no reason for concern,”

Kevin looks up, looking quite concerned.

Josie glances at him, gaze hardening as she pulls away.

“But there is, isn’t there?” she laughs again, but Bill does not echo her. For good reason, as only now can Carlos hear the threat in her voice.

“He tried to leave without proper authorization. That violates about ten of our residence codes,”

Josie, quite articulately, tells him where he can shove his residence codes.

“Either you send him here or we get him, ourselves,”

“Besides,” she warns, voice dropping to a cold, hard tone. “You’ve played long enough,”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Josie is a BAMF, but we all knew that. Spoilers for ep. 31. 
> 
> The song The Angels were singing was a cover of “Heartbeats” done by Scala & Kolacny Brothers. Which is comprised of mostly female members, but I recommend listening to it, as they were my muse for the voices of The Angels. 
> 
> “To call for hands above, to lean on // Wouldn’t be good enough, for me no.” is the phrase, if we want to get real specific. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated.


	8. A Little Prayer (for you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let’s check in with our favourite resident scientist. No, not that one. Yes, that one.

 

 

_Nescio. Sed fieri sentio et excrucior_

 I do not know. But I feel it to be happening and I am tortured.

.

The sand is potent. Of course it is, years of nuclear radiation wreaking havoc on what little life there was to begin with. It leaves a bitter secretion that stuck to the roof of his mouth, smooth and buttery against the rough granules.

Bill doesn’t let him drink water until Sofia comes.

When she does, she drifts in lightly, wearing a summery belted dress that flows easily around her knees. She holds a small knife in her hand, and leather gloves protect her smooth, tanned skin from whatever disgusting thing she’s about to do. Perfume wafts over him, sweet and chalky, and it would be refreshing if he didn’t hate it.

“Jack,” she says, like she was going to ask him about the weather. Her smile twists until it is a sneer.

“What have you been up to?” Jack doesn’t say anything, he knows everything is rhetorical until Sofia says it isn’t. He presses his lips into a skin tight line.

She turns to Bill, following the gulp of his throat as he answers. Bill relays everything they did, down to switching Katryn’s ID card. He remembers her struggling, her eyes cold and cruel, but he had the momentum and she didn’t, slamming against the wall and staying there.

“Daniels tried to fight you when you took her card. She didn’t help you at all, did she?” He can’t answer, since he knows the next question.

“You know what friends are supposed to do, Jack?” She pauses for effect. “Help each other,”

“Did you know what I did to Katryn Daniels?” He knows, he’s known since he saw her being dragged away from the corner of his eye, he’s known and the guilt isn’t as heavy as it should be. Sofia wouldn’t have spared her.

“It’s very brave to help strangers, Jack. Especially those who left you behind,”

The words are poison from her mouth, breathed into his ear and neck, making the skin prickle uncomfortably. Fumes are already starting to seep in from her body, winding sinuously around her waist and torso. His lids droop, and Sofia slips into his consciousness.

“You stayed behind, Jack,” His defences drop one by one like bombs. “Why would you do that?”

“Boy was bein’ a hero,” Bill pipes in, sneering. Sofia silences him with a wave, and turns her attention back to Jack. She doesn’t believe it, but he’s going to convince her it was all just a bout of heroism.

“I wanted Kevin to be safe,” he slurs, and it’s not a lie but it’s not the answer, it’s a truth she already knows.

Breathing becomes an insurmountable task. It’s not his life, exactly, flashing before his eyes, more so the important bits of the last twenty four hours. Sofia is dissatisfied with his answer, but she can see him slipping under, so he figures he’s being cut some slack until he wakes up again.

.

_Jack is very excited, even if he won’t admit it. It’s sort of obvious when this time of day rolls around, the digital clock clicking one and indicating the change of shifts. Lab coats mill around them, silent save for the rustle of fabric and the click of pens. No one talks, really, unless they need to._

_“What room do we have?” he asks, like he doesn’t give a care in the world. They climb spired stairways onto the second floor, approaching hallway L._

_“Two dash thirty four,” she says, monotone as they’ve had the same room for weeks. Only now has It regained consciousness, like a newborn. This subject is supposed to be the star of the operation, la pièce de résistance. Katryn thinks It’s stupid. Jack doesn’t, which is even more ridiculous in her mind._

_The door creaks open, the thing (or whatever, she still can’t bring herself to look into It’s eyes) is perched on the bed, drumming the long, spindly fingers against the sheets. It’s head turns slowly, with the faint spark of recognition behind wide eyes._

_“Hi, Kevin!” Jack starts, enthusiastic and genuinely happy to see this abomination of nature. It replies with its own_ Hello _, and a wave in their general direction._

_“How was your show?” she asks, only because she has to. Her paycheck suffers when she doesn’t participate._

_“Fine,” It replies, brows knitting while replaying the day’s events. Katryn has seen them on the monitor, she knows whatever happened, but protocol dictates she care._

_“I met someone today,” he says softly. “I’m not sure who, but I think he was lost. He kept saying he had to go back home,” Katryn rolls her eyes. The replacements get dumber and dumber each year._

_“Who was he?” Jack asks, sitting next to Kevin on the bed. She would laugh at his un-subtlety if she could._

_“I don’t know,” he repeats, hints of exasperation in his voice. Apparently It had a personality now._

_“He looked like me, but wore sweater vests and screamed when I hugged him. The strangest thing was what he said, though,” A pause, and Kevin takes a deep breath._

_“He said ‘kill your double’. In fact, that’s all he would say, you know. ‘Kill your double, Night Vale, kill them’,”_

_Katryn blinks. He isn’t talking about you-know-whom, is he? Kevin looks at Jack, whose face has paled of colour. His fists tighten in the pristine linen sheets. Jack looks at her, and she can see her career crumbling, this company crumbling and all because of this monster and his double._

_She walks to the intercom, pressing the line that connects her to Bill. Jack presses his fingers to Kevin’s eyelids, letting the lashes flutter against his skin before sending Kevin into a dreamless sleep. He gets to his feet silently, poising himself directly behind Katryn._

_She hits the ground before Bill picks up, head slamming against the concrete wall and eyes rolling back into her head, back into unconsciousness. Jack extracts the ID card from her fine china neck, muttering a quiet_ sorry _as he goes._

_The camera has been off for a while now, but any sound of struggle could give them away. He props Katryn up, pulling her up by the thighs and onto the interrogation seat by Kevin’s bed. Her head slumps, and she looks asleep. J. Morris hangs from her neck, and it will keep her safe for a few hours. Jack turns, looking at his unconscious colleague and project, and exits the room quietly._

_Cecil and Carlos will be coming soon._

.

A splash of cold water jolts him from his dream, the icy chill tracing fingers down his neck. Bill hides a snicker behind his meaty hand, and Sofia rolls her eyes.

They wheel an ancient television set in front of him, complete with a dusty VCR player and cassettes piled on top of each other. Sofia reaches up and switches off the camera, instantly dimming the room. In the dust spun light, Jack can see her pop open the cassette and slide a thin disc out of it. The VCR player opens its slim maw, and the disc disappears within the dusty exterior. Security footage plays, crisp and in colour, and Jack can clearly see it dates a week before. Sofia pauses the video at 3:26 PM.

“There’s a feedback loop from here till 4:01. You hid it well, Jack, but we can only watch a clip so many times before someone picks it up,” He isn’t going to accept whatever flattery she might try to offer. Sofia could kill him anytime, but she won’t, and he has to keep himself as valuable as possible.

“But that isn’t the strange part,” she exclaims, walking over to him. Red lips brush against his ear. “This loop has been recurring for seven weeks. What have you been doing, my boy?”

Bill has a dirty look on his face, like he knows all of Jack’s secrets. Jack divulges him another, if only for a distraction, if only a lie. “Kevin and I,” he starts, changing the tone of his voice to match a teenager caught in the act.

“We, well-uh, we spent that time, um, together,” His cheeks burn, and it’s a lie but Jack wishes it wasn’t. Sofia raises her eyebrows, twisting her soft lips into a smirk. Bill guffaws, pink cheeked and mirthless. They’re taunting him, shaming him for time he never got to spend.

Waves of yearning, and it is only yearning he can manage, wash over him. Jack wants life to be simple enough to get caught with someone, to spend sleepless nights thinking of them. He had his priorities, of course, but he also has a heart. This one, pulsing in his chest, feels a little constricted. Sofia and Bill leave, although Jack does not miss the light teasing for complacency. She might play along for his ruse for a while, but she will find out, and when she does, Jack hopes he’ll be faster than her.

It’s too important not to be.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay, but am smiling too broadly for this to be a despondent message. For today, I have received my new computer, and privacy and efficiency are once again my friends. Thank you for your patience. Enjoy. 
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is highly appreciated.


	9. A Man in the Mirror (he’s got a tan jacket): Part A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mayor Winchell has never prayed in her life, until now. But it’s kind of required anyways, and Erika is polite enough to cough in their radiancy.

.

 

History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.

.

So apparently Josie knew the head of StrexCorp from the times of disco. And, apparently, she is the only one not soiling her pants when talking to them. Even Erika looks impressed.

“Josie..” Bill sighs, a long crackling line of static. “I have to go now, alright. Talk to Winchell yourself if you don’t believe me,”

Angrily, Josie mutters in a few words before he hangs up.

“If you hurt that boy I _will_ hurt you, you hear?” The dial tone hears her, and Josie places the ancient phone back in its cradle. Her wrinkles seem to have bunched near the corner of her cheek, twitching occasionally.

“Winchell? As in our Winchell?” Cecil ventures, raising a brow. Josie nods.

“Mayor Pamela Winchell made an agreement a few weeks ago, when the invisible clock tower was being built,” Carlos remembers that tower, spending hours gazing upon dark clouds and catching tiny ticks of seconds.

“StrexCorp pressured her to tighten the radius around Night Vale, and she refused. The last we saw her, she was talking to a man in a tan jacket,” Josie sniffs.

Cecil adds his contribution, putting on his radio voice like an unused suit. It smoothes out wrinkles and cracks, animates his hands.

“We know she was upset, and entered a black sedan with him. She hasn’t been seen since,” Carlos feels distinctly like he is in some crime show syndication, or that he should be taking notes.

Next to him, Kevin, who had perked up at the mention of Jack, looks paler than usual. He swallows unevenly, and clears his throat.

“Were there flies in his suitcase?” he asks, and it’s such a non-sequitur it stops Josie and Cecil in their metaphorical tracks. At their confirmation, Carlos sees realization dawn dark over Kevin’s eyes.

“That’s Jack,” he says, voice small with fear.

.

Everyone but Erika seems surprised, but Carlos figures it must be one of the perks of being a holy being.

“The boy who helped you?” Josie’s face is wrought with disbelief. They all nod, and Kevin looks very much like he might implode with whatever else he knows. _We were supposed to help him_ , Carlos thinks, but doesn’t say anything. Confusion, above all else, is wreaking havoc on his brain.

“We should ask people,” he suggests, ordering his thoughts. “Like City Council or whoever else is running for mayor. I mean, they would know more than us, right?”

Turns out, no one except Hiram McDaniels knew a thing. True to his ancient dragon form, he insisted only a true dragon lord could speak to him. Kevin walked up and placed a firm hand upon his snout. Carlos knew the words before they were spoken, the tremor of Kevin’s lips traveling through the spine of the dragon.

“Please,” said his shaking voice. “Please help us,” Maybe if Carlos was given the chance, he would note down how Cecil and Kevin shook with their words, not their bodies. Maybe if he found their similarities more interesting than disturbing, and things were not completely going to metaphorical (or not) hell, Carlos might even publish a paper on their striking semblances.

He can’t, though, as it scares the living hell out of him.

.

An hour of dragon breath later (surprisingly pleasant, as if one swallowed a water tank of toothpaste), and they have answers. Mayor Winchell wants to keep Night Vale safe, Jack obviously made plans he didn’t tell anyone about (again) and they have added another enigma on the list of people to save.

Josie marches them to the outskirt of Night Vale, leaning against the welcome sign. She holds her hands out for something.

“Bloodstone circle apparatus?” she demands, and it couldn’t possibly get any vaguer, could it? Apparently it could, when Cecil pulls out a non-descript rock, spattered with bright blood. The flecks of green must also be blood, and remind Carlos of stained specimens.

Josie starts chanting, low and smooth, a humming noise that transports her to other places. Its general modality is one of all prayers, of hymns and verses he has forgotten. When the song ends, she draws a bumpy oval in the pebbled road, marking the four cardinal directions. The bloodstone is thrown, almost carelessly, in the circle. Her face is taut with concentration, eyes screwed shut and lips pursed. A sheen of sweat breaks out in beads on her forehead, dripping craters into the ground.

Nothing happens, for a while, until the blood from the stone starts leaking, and Carlos hears violins. Erika is silent, blushing awkwardly, and maybe the noise is an involuntary response to spirituality. Carlos isn’t sure why they’re embarrassed. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s heard, second to Cecil’s voice.

His delight dies out, soon, as the tell-tale spill of sand circles his toes. Cecil pulls him behind, and Josie holds Kevin’s arm in a death grip, triumph splashed on her features.

Stupidly, Carlos looks over, into the iridescent blue, it is blue this time, and the portal is more of a mood ring than anything else. Swirls, really, of people and places, blur his vision until he stumbles back, Cecil catching him. His arms are strong, flexing against his weight and Carlos would swoon if his brain wasn’t otherwise occupied.

Vaguely, he hears Josie mutter “Don’t look!” but that ship has sailed so far its sails pinch the horizons.

Night Vale. Josie. Dancing with disco balls and dust and buffalo skin and unrelenting heat. The Sun hasn’t changed, a bright pulse in the sky, illuminating the past. Jack Morris sits quietly, teenaged and lanky, eagerly reading StrexCorp pamphlets. A baby cries and he sees himself kissing Cecil, he sees the Arby’s and Pamela Winchell’s beautiful ebony skin, young and smooth. She is beautiful, and so is Cecil, the Sun catching their faces as if it was nothing but a spot light for their glory.

“Wh-what?” he falters, voice catching on nothing. All of history is stuffed in his brain, and his skull pounds with the effort.

“The Void,” says Josie, awed. Tears swim in his eyes and he doesn't know why.

“The Void has found us,”

.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff is coming together, Lori. Things. Or, my excuse as to what exactly I spend time doing on Word. 
> 
> Also, is Jack the villain or the hero? I plan to figure that out quite soon. 
> 
> Part 1 of 2. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated.


	10. A Man in the Mirror (he’s got a tan jacket): Part B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> StrexCorp is not evil, until it has to be.

 

 

The universe is not required to be in perfect harmony with human ambition.

.

Carlos can’t breathe. All he sees is eternity, vast expanses of the universe shrinking and unshrinking, a thousand big bangs until he has to look away.

Words fail him, as they fail all humans whence presented with the truth. If the truth were an equation, it would surround itself with pillars of absolution.

 

I _TRUTH_ I = universe  (total) / time (indefinite)

 

His body quivers, strung tight like a bow, unsure of the target. Cecil strokes his back and whispers nothing into his ear and soothes him until Carlos stops shaking. The Void is starting to take shape, faces and cold hard angles amongst the swirling masses.

Kevin, who must not be terrified of absolute nothings, steps forward, peers in as if he’s looking into a fishbowl.

“I see Jack,” he says, a mix of fondness and apprehension. He is the only one.

They aren’t going to jump in, obviously, without a plan. Carlos, sadly, is the only one who holds that belief, mouth agape as Josie grabs Erika by the wing and plunges into the vortex. She cackles, hooting and clapping like one would on an amusement park ride.

Carlos tries to pull her back in, since she clearly has no idea what she’s doing, but Josie retracts her hand and wags a finger instead.

“Live a little, my boy!”

“That’s what I’m trying to do!” he yells. “Living, by not, you know, _dying in a vortex_?”

She shakes her head and is swallowed by a yogurt-swirl galaxy. Erika giggles, trumpets and violins and the ever present hum of the Void. Kevin is still looking, squinting his eyes and widening them once Jack looks back at them.

Cecil has the responsibility of holding Carlos lest he faint. He’s doing a fantastic job, and Carlos would tell him if he didn’t feel queasy.

“We have to jump in sometime, you know that, right?” Cecil murmurs in his ear. Strangely intimate, but Carlos knows all his blood has leaked out of his toes, so a blush would not be in order.

Kevin seems to be communicating with whatever he sees in the Void, Jack apparently, and reaches out his forearm. Carlos thinks nothing of it until a hand grips Kevin’s arm, and it is the rolled up sleeve of a pristine lab coat. Carlos knows the scientist who would roll up his sleeve, and it’s the not the type stuck in a lab doing experiments. The evidence is concrete, sealing his fate.

“We’re jumping, aren’t we?” Carlos feels like jelly all over, head to toe to the crook of his neck and dip of his back. Cecil nods, holding his hand and tugging him forward.

Carlos hates the Void so much. His hatred for an insentient (or not, with how the purple pink white seems to grab him none too gently) Void is one of a child hating a toy, or a student hating homework.

All the hatred clogs his brain and fills his nerves until it leaves, and there is nothing but dirty sand and his own breathing slowing down to a stop.

Then, as with most intermissions, nothing but a blank screen and popcorn stuck on shoes.

.

Jack is in the middle of wiping coagulated blood from his cheek when he first hears Kevin. He brushes it off, a figment of his Kevin-depraved mind, all that _heart grows fonder in absence_ nonsense.

Then he hears it again, clear as day, and Kevin’s face sticks out from the ceiling.

“Jack,” soft, sweet and he wants nothing more to sleep in the voice, cradled by its owner.

Chemicals are still pumping out of his system, leaving him in a cold sweat stricken paralysis.

He waves it off, focusing on breathing and _not_ missing Kevin.

“L-look,” he says, quaking from his vocal chords. “I know what you gave me, alright? I practically designed them! And I want you to know,” he pauses, because even his hallucinations hurt his chest.

( _I want you to know you mean more than numbers and data and prizes I’m sorry I think I am in love but I can’t say it I don’t know why I’m sorry so sorry_ ).

“No,” he’s firm now, has to be. “You need to know I’m not falling for it,”

He turns his back to the voice and the portal.

“Jack,” the voice (Kevin, please let it be Kevin) sounds so fond. “I believe you,”

Then he is promptly hit in the face with sand, _Night Vale_ sand with its clean, pure taste, and that of all things spurs him to reach up and grab Kevin’s hand. Jack pulls like his life depends on it, and has an armful of Kevin. Then Josephine Williams and something else that burns his clothes and then Carlos and Cecil since those two are never apart.  

All these people and not-people pile on top of him American football style, crushing his chest and stealing the air from his lungs. Cecil and Carlos help each other off, self-conscious about how they were sprawled atop one another.

Kevin gets up too, hovering near him but not touching, offering a hand to Josephine and the thing he can’t look at.

Josephine, however, insists on being called Josie and also remaining on the hardwood floors.

“ _This_ is your torture chamber?” she asks, taking in the paneled floor and leather swivel chairs and clear glass table. She hasn’t seen the blood stains yet, hasn’t looked at him and the puddle of blood and vomit and whatever else he upchucked in the corner of the room.

Jack swipes a hand against his cheek, feeling rough almost-stubble and dried spit. He probably looks hideous, but shoves that insecurity in the back of his mind.

Josie turns to look at him, eyes intent as they roam over his body.

“Jack?” she asks, and he nods. Her questions have the demeanor of a drill sergeant, quick and no-nonsense.

“Tan jacket?” Cecil asks, not as coldly. A cold stone drops in the pit of his stomach.

 _They know_ chants a terrified voice. _They know about you and Winchell and the jacket you should have burned the jacket and the flies oh no what now Jack what now?_

He clears his throat.

“Yes,” They might not know everything.

“What were you talking about with Mayor Winchell?”

Scratch that. They know everything.

Jack sighs, looking around the room at Josie and Cecil and Carlos. He can’t meet Kevin’s eyes, partly because he’s near the Thing that will burn his retinas but also because Kevin has a sad wistful look on his face that Jack caused. It’s more than a little unbearable.

“I can’t tell you here,” he says, locking the door behind them. “Not like this, anyway, let me just...” he strains, reaching up to disable the camera. It denies him access, and Jack remembers Sofia took his ID card away from him.

“Here,” Carlos volunteers, handing his own fake card. After all this time, J. Davis hangs faithfully around him. Jack swipes it without guilt, knowing J. Davis was eradicated from StrexCorp by Sofia herself, so it obviously won’t show up on the files she will search.

The cameras switch off, and Josie raises an impressed brow.

“How long have you been planning this?” _This_ encompasses his whole plan, and he’s baffled that she understands how much of it is still left.

“A while,” Non-descript answers will suffice, for now.

Finally, when all security is switched off, he stands in the middle of the lumpy circle and waits. No one wants to talk, so he claps his hands together and starts off the awkward redundancy of their arrival.

“How did you find-”

“Portal,”

“What, a card or-”

“Bloodstone circle,” Josie’s mouth is a firm line. “Look son, we’ve come a long way to help you. A little honesty as to what in blazes is going on would be much appreciated,”

She looks like she could snap him in two, flanked by the glowing Thing and Cecil and a shaken Carlos.

“Right,” he nods to himself. “Honesty, yes, you all deserve that. Why don’t we sit down?”

Josie and the Thing still eye him warily, but at least Carlos sends an apologetic half-smile his way. Or maybe there is sand stuck in his pants.

Either way, it does little to prepare him against Josie.

.

They all sit in a circle, hands folded above the glass table. Carlos resists from spinning in the desk chair, almost terrified at how wonderful the lumbar support is.

It feels a lot like story time, even though the story might end up killing them.

Jack starts, and it’s then when Carlos sees the dark bags under his eyes and the blood still stuck near his mouth. The cut is sharp and pink, one only made by a knife or scalpel.

“I joined StrexCorp a few years ago, as a teenager. I was fresh out of high school, and the surfing thing didn’t fit, so I became a scientist,” he chuckles weakly. Erika coughs.

“Anyway, I worked here for a while doing assistant sort of things, you know, filling up test tubes and crunching numbers and all that. Basically a lapdog. But again, it didn’t fit, so I did what I shouldn’t have and rose up the ranks,”

“There’s no shame in ambition,” Josie cuts in, finally reverting to her wise old ways. Carlos finds it hard to believe she _whee-ed_ in a vortex.

Jack looks at her, confused by her sudden compassion.

“It wasn’t ambition, not exactly. More like, I don’t know, wanting to do something of my own rather than slaving over the work some old guy isn’t bothered to do,”

“Eventually, I caught the attention of Sofia and Bill, and they paired me up with Katryn Daniels for a new project. I was excited, but misinformed, so I defended my position without knowing what it really meant. Mistake number two, obviously,”

Jack smiles, a little bitter and nostalgic.

“I visited Night Vale a little while after that, and I wanted so badly to make Desert Bluffs as good as it could be, it kind of consumed me,”

“What happened to Desert Bluffs?” Kevin asks, and Jack stares at him, judging an appropriate response. Kevin, however, stops him with a hand in the air.

“The truth, Jack. Nothing else,”

Jack swallows.

“It died out. There was an explosion at the nuclear power plant and birth rates were so low everyone who was still alive left,”

Kevin blinks, pieces of the story connecting.

“Night Vale survived, you know? And we didn’t know how, or why, so we started investigating. We sent out a team there, few months ago,”

Carlos feels his throat go dry.

“My team,” he croaks. “They were from StrexCorp?”

 _Angela. Hafis. Christine. Suresh._ They all knew what they were doing, from day one, and were never perturbed by inconsistent clocks or invisible towers or lethal librarians. Why would they, if they knew all along.

Jack nods, and Carlos hates him for a moment, hates StrexCorp and his team and everything that brought him to this stainless table and this man of plans and secrets.

But Cecil isn’t upset, Cecil merely looks and listens and understands, and he is the beacon when Carlos is lost, he has always been. Carlos twines their fingers together under the table.

“It was going so well, we thought we could repopulate Desert Bluffs and make it whole again. Make it _live_ and _breathe_ the way Night Vale does,” Jack is overcome by passion for a moment, and Carlos sees why believed so strongly in his cause.

“Pamela Winchell, she wasn’t down with it from day one. She kept telling us there were things we didn’t know, and going forward with the project was a major blunder. We, _I_ , didn’t believe her until now,”

The unspoken _what happened_ is the only thing Carlos can hear.

“Night Vale is changing,” Jack says. “And we can’t keep up,”

 .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The equation is so bogus but I love it don’t judge. 
> 
> This chap. was a doozy to write, but I'm so glad I got it. Also, Strex backstory, woo hoo.
> 
> Enjoy, review, comment. Constructive criticism is so appreciated I type out the same sentence every chapter.


	11. A Sorry State of Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Believe in a frowning, nonsensical god that shakes you awake. It’s called “Erika”.

.

Where do we begin, the rubble or our sins?

.

Stunned silence fill the room. “Changing?” Cecil looks perplexed. “What’s causing the change?”

“Every time an intern changes in Night Vale, Desert Bluffs gains another square kilometre of land. Who’s the newest intern?”

“I-I’m not sure. After Dana, I haven’t been in my station for weeks,” Jack looks around waiting for answer.

“Vithia,” Erika reminds them. “She came in last week,”

“Thanks, Erika,” Cecil smiles at them, and they glow brighter.

“Erika?” Jack looks around, eyes catching on the empty chair between Cecil and Josie, trying to find someone. Panic fills his features, but Carlos can see him trying to smother it down with nonchalance.

“He can’t hear us, can he?” they ask themselves. Josie shakes her head.

Erika rises, cradling Jack’s head in their hands and pressing a Kiss to his forehead. The force of the touch has him flying out of the swivel chair. Jack gasps, and Carlos knows the feeling, remembers dropping the carton of orange juice at the Night Vale Superlative Market. His skin singed and smoke rose from his cheek, flushing pink. It felt beautiful and painful and he waited until whatever touched him came into focus.

“Erika,” they had said, glowing faintly under the harsh fluorescence of modern day lighting. Carlos thinks he must have choked on his own spit in response.

Erika smiled at him and floated away.

Meanwhile, Jack sputters a similarly eloquent response. “What just, I mean who...?”

“We are Erika,” Jack swallows, and his panic is evident in how it raises the pitch of his voice.

“There’s more than one?” Erika nods, and the flash of light is so bright even Josie shields her eyes.

Carlos knows Jack has questions, he is a scientist after all, questions and curiosity reign his blood and bones. But there are other matters to attend to, like what exactly they’re going to do next.

Jack returns to his seat, fighting the blush creeping up his neck. Carlos tries not to laugh, not wanting to be a hypocrite. Falling out of a chair is not nearly as bad slipping in spilt juice.

.

As it is, Jack isn’t fond of sitting down and talking when they could be doing things. They end up walking through Desert Bluff’s main street, Jack leading them to where Mayor Winchell is being held captive.

“Won’t the people who caught you know you’ve escaped?” Cecil still cannot stomach the fact that Jack has orchestrated everything. Carlos can, but with great difficulty.

“They will know, but they can’t do anything about it. A security breach in StrexCorp is one everyone is aware of, and if the employees realize their bosses are screwing up, it’ll break their loyalty,”

It seems shaky ground for messing around with a company as powerful as StrexCorp, but Carlos tells himself to trust Jack.

“Is that how yours was broken?” Carlos asks, shuddering at the thought of Jack being loyal to StrexCorp. Jack looks at him, lips angling for a smile.

“I suppose it was,”

As they walk the paved streets, Carlos sees people milling about. They look normal enough, but upon closer inspection he’s horrified to see their eyes as black as tar. Memories of Kevin flood his brain, logo stretching thin across taut muscle, and computerized voices. Their features are slack with medication, slumping across their skulls.

Kevin, too, seems to take notice, gazing upon their faces as if he’s never seen them before.

“These people,” he mutters, horrified. “They used to be my neighbours,” Jack squeezes his hand sympathetically.

“And they will be. Just a little bit longer, and then we’ll all be free,”

None of the civilians take note of them, walking dogs into dog parks and licking gelato. It seems so happy and normal Carlos could see himself living here, picket fenced and oblivious. They continue walking, ground solid and hard beneath them.

.

Finally, they reach the warehouse Winchell is supposedly locked away in. It’s the same one people who consumed wheat and wheat by-products were held in. Remnants of their stay still remain, picket signs of “We Love Bread” and crumbs everywhere.

The Sheriff’s Secret Police didn’t bother to tidy up.

Outside, it resembles the barn house of John Peters, (Cecil’s voice adds in _you know, the farmer_?) and Carlos questions his sanity for the umpteenth time. The paint is chipped red and white, and rotting wood decorates the front entrance.

Jack grasps the door by its handle, pulling twice before having to pick out splinters. They all try, except for Kevin, who stares up into the sky. He must still be recovering from the shock of Desert Bluffs. Even Erika is unable to burn the door.

“Non-flammable substance, this one. Didn’t know they still sold that around here,”

Carlos leans against the wall and thinks. Perhaps a crowbar would work, if he could find the strength to wrench open a heavy wooden door with a curved piece of metal.

“Where’s your bloodstone?” Kevin asks. Maybe he knows some game they can play while they wait for an idea.

Josie produces it from her pocket, placing it in the off-centre of Kevin’s palm. He draws a circle in the sand, naming cardinal directions with their initials.

“My mother taught me to do a bloodstone circle when I was only fifteen,” he tells her, smiling faintly. Cecil’s mouth drops open, and he furiously whispers that his mother did the same into Carlos’ ear. Which is another similarity Carlos is too freaked out to explain, so he pats Cecil’s knee and tells him everyone learns important things when they are fifteen. Cecil doesn’t buy his excuse, but it calms him for a minute.

Kevin doesn’t chant like Josie did, however, only hums a sweet, lilting melody as they all watch the sand fold in itself. If he opens another Vortex, Carlos swears to god he will kill someone. Somehow, the Vortex does not appear, only causes the sand under the door to fall inside. The sand acted like a wedge, and when it disappears, Kevin closes the Vortex by snatching up the bloodstone and berating it.

With his leverage, Kevin swings the door open and advises them to tread lightly.

“Careful, guys. The stone is a little upset, so it might try to suck you back in. Avoid the spillage,”

Kevin helps Josie and Erika across, not even noticing the singed flesh on his right arm. Cecil goes first, gripping Kevin’s left hand with his right. They have such perfect symmetry Carlos has to wonder if they planned it. He comes too, trying not to squeeze too hard on his forearm. Cecil had a long, sloping curve of an arm, with a peculiar bump on his bicep. Kevin does not have the bump, for which Carlos is grateful.

Jack goes last, as he spends most of his time gaping at Kevin and the diminishing portal.

“How did you even-”

“Jack,” Kevin admonishes. “That’s not important right now,” Kevin grabs his arm and hauls him across, and they both trip a little. They end up grasping each other’s arms, almost hugging until Erika _awwws_ and Jack breaks away, blushing.

Josie swats Erika’s arm, or whatever is in the general vicinity of.

“They were having a moment,” she snaps. Erika shrugs, relishing the embarrassment on both their faces.

The warehouse is spotless, glowing white from every corner. A sleek black television hangs from a wall fixture (also sleek), which faces a soft leather couch, and the colour of aubergine.

Sounds of struggle echo behind them, harsh gasps and the loud, clear crack of bones, and Carlos turns his head to see a woman falling to the floor. Her hair looks like spilled ink, body twisted unnaturally in a yellow dress.

Mayor Winchell steps over her and pushes her dark hair out of her eyes. Her gaze catches on the six of them cowering in a corner, and she smiles.

“Hello,” she says. Carlos suppresses a whimper. “Give me a hand, would you? She’s heavier than she looks,” Winchell reaches out a hand, beckoning them closer.

Unmistakable authority flavours her tone, making it pleasant and easy to follow. Everything about her makes Carlos want to obey. They walk together, Josie lifting the head, Kevin and Jack taking her legs. Carlos holds her by the waist, finally getting a proper look at her face.

The woman is pretty, pointed bones and lashes that resemble butterfly wings. Her mouth hangs open in death, but her eyes are closed, and Carlos sighs out a wordless thanks. Jack must know her, the way he keeps glancing at her face and dress.

Once she is slumped against the wall, he crouches near her and places two fingers near her neck. “You really killed her,” his voice is coloured with disbelief. Carlos feels sick, the fact he carried a dead woman halfway across the room without questioning it.

Mayor Winchell nods, and she looks like the least helpless hostage he’s ever seen. Then Jack smiles, stands over a dead woman and smiles, and Carlos can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“Thanks,”

_Thanks._

Oh god, Carlos is going to be way worse than sick.

With a last glance at the slumped woman, Carlos heaves a breath and crumples.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got around to listening to “Yellow Helicopters” and “Cassette”, and teenage Cecil is the cutest thing I can’t. Gershwin Palmer. What even? 
> 
> So, as I always do, I turn the cutesy stuff into angst. Forgive me. 
> 
> (Or don’t and love me forever that would work too).
> 
> Enjoy and please comment/leave kudos/bookmark if you do!


	12. An Exclamation of : Carlos!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The climactic climax climaxes. (Or Bill tries a lot of shit and Jack does too and they argue and the fate of the whole universe rests in their lab coats.)

A destruction, an annihilation that only man can provoke, only man can prevent.

 

.

 

“He fainted,”

Josie nods, and Cecil scrambles to his boyfriend, ignoring the twisting feeling in his stomach when he pries Carlos away from her.

Mayor Winchell purses her lips sympathetically, but Cecil hears someone whisper _lightweight_ under their breath, and a group of snickers follow. He ignores it, tries to wake Carlos up by patting his face lightly. It doesn’t work, and he resorts to swinging his boyfriend over his shoulder, fireman style.

“StrexCorp isn’t after me anymore. It’s Jack now, really. I was a distraction for the most part,” Winchell says after a while, smiling sheepishly. “We should still probably run, just in case,”

They do, scrambling out of the warehouse, Carlos flopping awkwardly on his shoulder. No one notices, and they make good time. To what destination, Cecil isn’t quite sure of.

“Where are we going?” he pants, trying to re-angle the body on his shoulder. “And who did you just kill? And -”

Winchell holds a hand up to silence them. Its meaning varies between _wait_ and _shut up, Cecil_. Jack, unlike the rest of them, walks straight into the field of view of one angry old man.

Crouching behind a concrete wall, (StrexCorp Bakery; Always Fresh Out of the Jungle), Winchell straightens, posture leonine.

“Bill is here,” she tells Jack. “He probably figured Sofia is gone, and you know how he is when something doesn’t go his way,”

Jack nods. Bill shifts from his stance on the street, swinging a heavy suitcase by the handles.

“I’m going to talk to him,” he says to himself, and before anyone can stop him Jack is already marching up to Bill. The other man’s posture stiffens, defensive to say the least. It’s a strange sight, an old man and a young man with lab coats whipping around their ankles, preparing for some sort of duel.

Cecil prays, and Erika assures him He got the message, and hopes for safety (for Jack, at least).

.

 

Bill looks old. Too old to be bickering with Jack in the middle of the street. His face is creased with worry, and his bald head gleams menacingly in the sunlight.

“You know you can’t do it, Bill. Not with all three,” God, there used to be a time Jack called this man _sir_ with respect.

“I damn well can, Jack. Why are you fighting this, boy? Our efforts, _your efforts_ , are going to go to waste just because some Night Vale freaks became your friends?”

How desperately Jack wants to get it through Bill’s thick, terrifyingly single-minded skull that the real freaks are right here, at home.

“Bill,” he starts out, placating and soft. “It doesn’t work anymore. The plates shifted, for Pete’s sake! It’s _over_ ,”

Bill shakes his head, mouth pressed in a tight line. Jack knows that look, knows the crazy determination. He still remembers sitting in his office, air conditioner chilling him to the bone as he read the reports.

Jack scrubs a hand over his face and tries again. Bill’s face has fallen by a miniscule amount, the equivalent of a snowflake fluttering off an iceberg.

“You’ve seen the reports, haven’t you? You _know_ Night Vale survived because of the Vortex and you _know_ Desert Bluffs can’t create its own unless Night Vale is destroyed,”

Bill snorts. “And what’s so bad about losing that town of whack-jobs to save our own, huh? What makes Night Vale any better than us?”

“They’re real, Bill. Real people, not clones walking around like billboards. Real people who don’t thank StrexCorp for every breath,”

“And that boy, then?” Bill is smirking, mouth twisting something angry and fierce beneath his pain. Jack feels his stomach tighten, tries not to scream because Kevin blurs so many lines it’s ridiculous. “Are you willing to give him up, too? Just to prove this old man wrong?”

Jack opens his mouth, but Bill bulldozes on, hell bent on proving his point.

“You are going to give up the revival of the entire Midwest just because some crazy townies told you their _magic_ wasn’t going to work? You’re losing so much, Jack, and you don’t even realize!”

The old man can be so convincing, but Jack knows he’s right. He’s a scientist and he collects data, he honest to God _observes_ , and he knows Cecil and Pamela and Josie and everyone else couldn’t conjure enough of w _hatever_ they did before to save themselves. He knows Desert Bluffs will be obliterated if the plates are disturbed, and knows both towns can’t stay in each other’s orbit anymore.

“I don’t know how to convince you, Bill. But I’m not letting you open the Vortex and kill thousands of people just to win a prize. I can’t,”

With grim determination, Jack advances upon Bill. He tracks the movement of the suitcase, the sharp _click_ as it opens. The remote is there, of course Bill wouldn’t forget to ransack Jack’s office the second he was discharged from the facility. He can feel Kevin’s eyes on him, and that strengthens his already unwavering resolve.

Think of the fame, Jack. Think of _everything_ we could save,”

Bill’s thumb hovers over the remote, hovers over a hundred pounds of dynamite and a million lives, and Jack leaps, pounces on the old man and flattens him, effectively knocking the remote of his grasp. Bill struggles beneath him, surprisingly strong, and manages to knock Jack off. Jack sprawls to his knees, panting, head spinning from the vicious kick.  

“You’re wrong,” he rasps, tasting blood. “You can’t save people through destruction,”

He crawls again, vaguely hearing Kevin and Pamela call out for him, latching onto Bill’s arm. The world spins, and he has less strength than an infant, easily tossed away like a leaf. Blood trickles down his hands as Bill smiles, with not a shred of regret in his lips.

Radon Canyon explodes with a humongous _boom_ , louder than fireworks of fighter planes, sprinkling desert dust all over.

A voice spins in his ears, belonging to Bill and Sofia and Katryn and everyone, _everyone._

 _Just watch me_ , they say. _Just watch._

And so he does.

 .

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness, I have really been slow with updating this old thing. School hit me like literal wrecking ball and consumed all my fricking time. I’m so sorry. 
> 
> At least I have an ending planned out, finally. God, I hate dragging shit on and on but that's exactly what I did.
> 
> PSA: Did anyone get the Magic School Bus reference in the title?


	13. An End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finality is a deafening goddess, with soft wings of death and slight smiles of beginnings.

.

 

Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.

.

 

Defeat had a strange, bitter taste to it. Heavy and hard, it slunk down Jack’s throat and into his core. Ashes sprinkled around, sedimentary rock colouring the paved streets orange and red.

Bill was still standing there, smile smug. He raised his arms to the sky, circling around the falling bits of rock as if they were confetti. Jack stood up, shaky, and dragged his feet. His body ached, but nonetheless he swung back and nailed Bill right in the face.

 It was a victory, albeit small, to hear the crunch of a broken nose.

.

Kevin was there, steadying him with his words, and Jack mustered an almost smile that felt painful. Josie and Erika stood off to the side, conversing quietly. Jack couldn’t imagine about what, but he let them have their peace.

Everyone waited for him, expectant as always. Jack swallowed the grief in his voice, chewed at it until it was nothing but a morsel of his weakness.

“Let’s go, ah, inspect the damage,” Formality was for the weak, so it suited him.

Moving away from the warehouse, near Route 800, was a massive split through the land. Cacti unfurled between them, some falling down the abyss. Others stood guard, prickly arms raised behind the two towns. Night Vale’s sign glowed faint purple, while Desert Bluffs radiated sun-like light. Jagged black sliced none too gently through the desert sand, a silent gaping maw.

 Jack looked at Carlos, silently asking if it was The Vortex or just A Vortex. Carlos shrugged in the negative. “Doesn’t look like it,” he said, walking around the edge.

 _At least it isn’t humming_ , Carlos thought. Although he sort of missed that Vortex, in a way. He took over leading the group, noticing the crushed look on Jack’s face. It wasn’t too late for hope, that much he knew. Night Vale was strong with Cecil, and just as strong without.

“Look,” Cecil pointed, and he followed his fingers towards midway point of the split. Something opalescent swirled up, tornado like in its viciousness.

It advanced closer, and with a small lurch, Carlos realized it was indeed The Vortex.

Josie and Erika stepped in front, arms outstretched wide like they were going to stop it by themselves. Josie’s sweater hung loosely from her arms, and only then Carlos saw the charred hem.

With the force of an ocean, The Vortex was upon them. Sand swirled, but Carlos was smart, covering his eyes and nose.

A voice rasped near his ear, broken and aged, millions of years of sand and fire and heat.

_Which one?_

Sand was everywhere, and despite his best efforts, it still managed to lodge itself into Carlo’s nose and throat.

“That’s for the towns to decide,” Josie said, how could she even speak in a sandstorm? “Leave the boy alone,”

Things starting to fall into familiar disorder as a conversation revealed itself.

Acutely, Carlos felt Cecil walking past him. He reached out, blindly grabbing his arm and pulling.

“Carlos,” Cecil admonished not unkindly. “I need to do this,”

Silence reigned again, nothing but the tiny grate of sand against skin to fill his ears.

“It has to be Desert Bluffs,” Was that Kevin? It had to be, judging from the clear tone. Carlos caught a flash of ducky tie with his eyes.

 _Good then_ , It said, grumbling. _Took you long enough to decide._

The sand stopped as abruptly as it came, disappearing into the giant canyon. Horrified, Carlos watched as the earth groaned with the weight. The sand acted like a lubricant, sliding cacti and buildings down into its mouth. Desert Bluff’s Bakery was the first to go, followed by cars and swing sets. Finally, the gigantic spire of the research facility toppled, going point first into the destruction.

Kevin walked towards the chaos, one hand behind his back. Jack followed, grasping his hand tightly, their figures setting loopy shadows across the dunes.

“Maybe next time,” Kevin said, his body far away but his voice omnipresent. “Next time I’ll be good enough for this world,”

Erika took their hands and flew them through the clouds, higher and higher until their bodies vanished like birds.

Cecil raised his hand in a salute. “We’ll be waiting,” he promised and it was just that.

A promise.

.

Something wet trickled down his face, and with a start Carlos realized he was crying.

Disoriented, he wiped a hand across his mouth, thinking of Jack and his bloody jaw, Kevin and the ducky tie, and the wreckage of an entire town. The sobs threatened to come back, but Carlos bit his fist and used the pain to drive them away.

“Carlos, dear, are you alright?”

“’M fine, Cecil” he grumbled, scrubbing the tears. It was the biggest lie he’d ever said, but Cecil didn’t see through it.

“Tea?” The steaming liquid did nothing to quell his nerves. The white walls were teeming with supernatural activity, which guaranteed they were of Night Valian descent. The beeping of a heart monitor confused him, however, as he couldn’t recall any serious injuries other than sand ingestion.

A doctor walked, young and fresh out of med school (Carlos knew that look, the invincible philanthropic look everyone had when they were young). Her ponytail bobbed behind her, and her gills flapped once before she smiled.

“How are you feeling, Carlos?” She had two jaws instead of one, and her nametag read _Emily._

“Fine,” he replied tersely, wondering why he was here in the first place. She seemed to read his mind, smiling so wide her jaw unhinged for the second time.

“You’re lucky you didn’t get any more injuries than sand ingestion, sir. Route 800 had _quite_ the pileup!”

Her expression changed however, when an authoritarian shadow passed through the door.

“I mean, we aren’t supposed to talk about it since it ‘didn’t happen',” Her air quotes were all over the place. “But I think my patients should know their circumstances, right? Ignorance isn’t bliss,”

_Pileup? What on earth was she talking about?_

“W-what do you mean?” Carlos hates the way his voice shakes.

Cecil walks over to him, brow furrowed. His argyle sweater vest looks terribly warm and cosy.

“Route 800 experienced a ten car collision. You managed to swerve out of the way, but ended up hitting a cactus a few miles out of town,”

“A _cactus_?”

Emily nods sagely.

“What about Jack and Kevin and-and,” he splutters, terrified at their blank faces.

Emily frowns, checking her clipboard again and running through the vitals. _No_ , he feels like screaming, _I’m fine!_

“Let’s go home,” Cecil says, gently leading Carlos out of the hospital. Emily discharges him quickly, helping Carlos fill out the paperwork when he feels too stunned to hold a pen. He must look crazy like this, looking around wildly in nothing but a hospital gown

Cecil opts to walk, never letting go of his hand the whole way. Night Vale looks unchanged, tumbleweeds still rolling obnoxiously, adding to the small town charm. His apartment is easy enough to remember, decorated with Night Vale Radio memorabilia and framed pictures of him and Carlos.

Cecil sits him down, muttering a quiet _take rest_ before pressing a kiss to his forehead. Carlos slumps on the couch, eyes flicking half-heartedly to the television screen in front of him. Nothing good is on anyway, so he gets up and browses the array of newspapers on the oak desk.

One catches his eyes, the headline bold and intimidating.

 

**_CELEBRATED GHOST TOWNS OF THE MIDWEST_ **

_For centuries, ghost towns have held a certain charm to all that dare enter. I, Steve Carlsburg, believe them to be nothing more than commercial cover-ups. The governing body places the stamp of ‘Ghost Town’ on economic failures, as if that could assuage the loss of entire communities._

_Case in point, Desert Bluffs had been Night Vale’s sister city for nearly a century. But suddenly, on that fateful day in 1952, it disappeared. Critics claimed conspiracy, but investigation never followed through. Good riddance, everyone had said. That town was horrible!_

_I most certainly agree. Once I wrote to the radio management at Desert Bluffs (much better than that Gershwin Palmer character, may I add), and was praised for my inquiries. Their host, Kevin, even invited me to their show. But when I embarked on the twenty mile journey in my Honda Accord, they had shunned me out._

_In place of Desert Bluffs’ ghastly welcome sign was a gigantic StrexCorp logo. StrexCorp may have had better taste in exterior design, but their monopolized hand had quickly seized little Desert Bluffs. The entire town disappeared within a few days!_

_Later, rumours of repopulation grew. Desert Bluffs was coming back, according to officials. We rejoiced, glad to have our companions back. It gets so lonely in the desert sometimes._

_Anyway, when I decided to use my Honda Accord once again, the town was gone. And by gone I do not mean swallowed up by a transnational corporation, stripped of all antiquity. No, Night Vale, it was_ gone, _as if the small town and the gigantic corporation were never there in the first place._

_All that remained was a tiny spire, made of shattered glass, poking out of the sand. StrexCorp’s last claim on our sister city, and its last claim on the desert._

_Or so we think. I have no proof yet, Night Vale, but believe me, I will. StrexCorp is like a lizard’s limb, as many times you cut it off, as many times it grows back._

_And that is nothing to celebrate._

 

THIS ARTICLE IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY HONDA. HAVE A GREAT TRIP, WITH US!

 

.

Carlos dropped the paper. His stomach contracted, and he felt he was imploding. The article was dated _1982_ , and the calendar he looked up to said the same thing.

 _Time spill_ , something insinuated, and without a doubt Carlos knew it was right.

.

END 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are. The final chapter. The next one is just author-y ramblings and bibliographies. 
> 
> As always, unbeta’d (but I could totally use one ahem), but never alone. This story was nothing without you guys, and if you’ve decided to read even a single word of this, thank you.


	14. Bibliographies, Author Ramblings and All Around asdfghjkl-ing

 Quotes Reference:

  1. “In the wave-strike over unquiet stones, the brightness bursts and bears the rose.” by Pablo Neruda
  2. “Set fire to the broken pieces; start anew.” by Lauren DeStefano
  3. “Though surely to avoid attachments for fear of loss is to avoid life.” by Lionel Shriver
  4. “Every one that sweareth by him shall glory: but the mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped.” by Psalm 63
  5. “We are only built to spill and wonder where the heart went.” by Marianas Trench
  6. “Just because something bears the aspect of the inevitable one should not, therefore, go along willingly with it.” by Phillip K. Dick
  7. “Nescio. Sed fieri sentio et excrucior.” in Catallus 85
  8. “Death, my son, is a good thing for all men; it is the night for this worried day that we call life.” by Bernadin de Saint-Pierre
  9. “History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.” by Carl Sagan.
  10. “Where do we begin, the rubble or our sins?” by Bastille
  11. “A destruction, an annihilation that only man can provoke, only man can prevent.” by Elie Wiesel
  12. “Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” by Winston Churchill



 

Author’s Note: Just watch as this turns out to be longer than the entire story I’m so fucking sorry.

Alright then. Let’s talk! Or I talk and the rest of you poor souls scroll down waiting for a fucking epilogue. There isn’t one.

Well, for starters, I’d like to thank everyone who read and left kudos/bookmarks/comments. I know some fics have nearly a thousand kudos under their belt, but for me, 67 is a pretty badass number in itself.

I also know a lot of fics become famous because of Tumblr. Oh Tumblr, me of little faith. I couldn’t hold onto you for more than five months. Yes, it’s true, I used to have blog like the best of them. And I wrote fic, but for an embarrassingly shitty fandom, and the drama (yes, internet drama) forced me to leave. Getting anonymous hate for not shipping a stupid ass ship was where I drew the line, and deleted.

I lost a lot of friends when I deleted, and I still miss them today. So when I see someone on AO3 encouraging people to drop prompts on their blog, I feel a little nostalgic. But then I remember the drama and I’m like you poor fuckers get off that site.

Fandom also disappeared, for a while. School was starting, I had classes to prepare for, and it ate away lots of my time. Writing is supposed to be an outlet, but it started feeling like a chore.

So I took a little hiatus from WOUS (sounds like wuss amirite?), and focused on studying and shit. After getting a 94% on a test I didn’t study for (French) and 89% on a physics test (physics is my worse subject I’d rather poke myself in the eye with a spoon), I felt pretty good. And I wrote and finished this baby in three hours. Phew.

I should tell you (yes, singular, I refuse to believe more than one person gives a shit about author notes) my name. It’s something freakishly unique, and enough of my RL friends name-drop me in their FB conversations to make me totally searchable. Which terrifies me to no end. So you may call me Vee or Barney or shitty author who didn’t update for two months or whatever floats your boat. I’ll love you regardless.

If you guys ever want to chat about this fic, Night Vale in general, or anything, drop a comment. Literally, I reply to every single one. I _live_ for comments and interaction and asdfghjkl-ing with internet peoples.

Well, there you go. Long author’s note. Hope I didn’t bore you. Oh and one more thing, because no multi-chaptered fic is complete without ripping off JK Rowling.

If you have stuck with Carlos, Cecil, Kevin, Jack, Josie, Erika and Pamela until the very end, this one is for you.

Thanks,

Vee. 


End file.
